


Blood Calling

by SLq



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-06-02 14:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6570184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLq/pseuds/SLq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal offers Will a family.</p><p>  <em> Haven't you heard? Blood calls to blood. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluesyturtle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesyturtle/gifts).



> I adore your stories.

On Tuesdays, he visits Will.

Hannibal thinks of the roots to this particular ritual as he guides his Bentley into the parking lot of the Academy. Born in blood, of course - a lovely little murder case that ended with Will shuddering through an orgasm at the crime scene and the killer scissoring off his own tongue. The memory of Will splattered in blood and intimate sweat is one Hannibal carries close; a visceral picture tucked into the locket of his mind. He is ever thankful that Jack had demanded his presence that day.

Upon realizing what spectacle he had made of himself sweet, deluded Will had stared at Hannibal in horrified embarrassment for a solid minute. He had then shaken off both Jack and the paramedics, bundled himself in his ratty woolen coat, and ran off for the jaws of Wolf Trap to lick at his bleeding pride in solitude. It had been a Saturday.

Will is not good at healing - or has grown too good at believing himself sick to begin with - and by Tuesday afternoon, the wound had begun to fester.

The call had come a bit after two in the afternoon, exactly ten minutes after the end of Will's class. Hannibal had let the phone ring four times before picking up, working politeness and then mild concern into his voice as he listened to Will stutter in pain on the other end. Under two minutes, he had maneuvered Will into issuing an invitation for a visit. In thirty more, a picnic basket containing carefully packaged leftovers - the food prepared the night prior, the menu selected for its ability to hold through half a day in the refrigerator and retain its taste - along with a bottle of moderately expensive wine was being placed in the back seat of Hannibal's Bentley. The drive to the Academy was spent in utter contentment.

Calming Will down had taken some time. The exercise of locating the man and then easing him out from beneath the shelter of his own desk had certainly required patience. Hannibal had not minded. Indeed, he had found himself holding back an indulgent smile as he crouched some distance away from the shaking profiler, hand outstretched. He still wonders if Will, who collects feral dogs as a child does toys, had found familiarity in the action. Hannibal had meant him to.

Once Will had ceased hyperventilating and emerged from beneath his desk, they had ended up having a rather lovely afternoon. Will had been reluctant to go home, and Hannibal even more so to let him. In the end they had camped out in the classroom, closing the door against prying eyes. Cutting off means of escape. Hannibal recalls the taste of the wine, the richness of the meat - the sight of Will Graham's throat working to consume Hannibal's offering. A painting wrought in sensation. Greedy beyond hunger, Hannibal had mourned the evening's end even while he sat across Will and smiled with aching teeth. The casual intimacy, the ability to claim a place that belonged and owned Will Graham in turn had not been something he had wanted to give up.

The realization that he did not have to had been singularly pleasing.

"Until next week," Hannibal had said once the empty containers had been tucked away in the traditional wicker basket, the tablecloth folded on top.

Will had blinked at his nose owlishly and licked his lips.

"Yeah," he had finally muttered, to his feet.

Hannibal's expression had remained mild. He could not quite conceal the covetous gleam in his eyes but Will had not been looking. He never did, when it mattered.

Hannibal is starting to suspect it is by design, however unconscious.

Thus, Hannibal had found a new and more engaging purpose for his Tuesday afternoons. Despite the existence of a perfectly accessible cafeteria in the bowels of the Academy, they continue to share meals in Will's classroom - secluded from the world and, more importantly, Jack. Dining on the floor is a touch uncivilized, but Hannibal does not mind. His civility is often and willingly shed. Sharing moments of uncouthness with Will is thrilling, all the more so for the potential Hannibal sees toward escalation.

 _Slowly_ , he reminds himself as he unloads today's dinner from the Bentley. The car's polished skin reflects Hannibal's face. The real one. Hannibal allows the Beast to look his fill before turning away. The mask of humanity feels more uncomfortable tonight.

It always does, on Tuesdays.

Hannibal enters the building through the elevator. Two guards mill around the third floor entrance. Both recognize Hannibal on sight and wave him in. He smiles back cordially, steps measured as he traces the now familiar path to Will's classroom. There are a few students still about, but all are on their way out. No one stays in the Academy longer than they absolutely must.

Will is ever the exception.

The door to the undersized auditorium Will had been assigned is open, but not fully. Hannibal reaches for the handle with the hand not holding the basket. He finds himself stepping to the side the very next instant as a body barrels through, bulging tote clipping his side in passing.

"Excuse me," the girl mutters, no actual apology in her tone.

Hannibal does not allow himself to look at her. There is only one soul he wants here, and this rude girl is not it.

Burgundy eyes lock on Will as soon as Hannibal enters the classroom. The man - unshaven, unkempt, utterly arresting - is bent over his desk, studying a spill of papers. Not an unfamiliar sight. What gives Hannibal pause are the two young men waiting impatiently on the other side of the desk. There is demand written in the lines of their bodies, the narrow focus of their eyes. Hannibal's hand tightens around the handle of the basket. He strides forward, steps falling heavier than usual. The young men do not seem to hear him.

Will's head snaps up, as if pulled on a string.

"Good afternoon," Hannibal says, eyes covering Will's face before reluctantly sliding over to the man's students and encompassing them in the greeting. Neither of the two reacts.

Will's smile is so wide it pushes his glasses up. Hannibal finds his temper mollified.

"Doctor Lecter," Will greets.

Hannibal inclines his head. "Professor Graham."

"Prof," one of the students - a tall, thin man with hooked nose and small eyes - spreads his hand atop Will's desk. Will's eyes fall to the offending limb immediately. So do Hannibal's. Will is too busy taking a step back to notice the dark hunger that colors his friend's expression. "We really need the extension. Come on, man, it's midterms - you know how it is!" The young man's friend - a pudgier, but no less rude version of him - nods fervently. His beady eyes seek out Will's, pupils wide. Hannibal's mood darkens further.

"As I said in class," Will tells his desk, "there will be no extensions. You had two months to prepare for this project. It will be unfair-"

"Fine!" the tall man snarls, cutting through a litany Will must have been repeating ever since his class let out, "But don't blame us if it's shit."

He storms off after that sophisticated pronouncement. His rounded sidekick glances back at Will before following suit. Hannibal is not certain which of the two he finds more off-putting. Both tempt him to break his promise regarding hunting on Will's territory.

Will sighs, a rattle of sound. His shoulders relax, mouth curving up in a rueful smile.

"Sorry about that," he tells Hannibal.

"The rudeness was not on your part." Hannibal hefts the basket up, so it peeks over the rim of the desk. "I hope my company is less aggravating."

Will chuckles, hands busy arranging the papers on his desk into some kind of order. "Trust me, you are a delight. I have met serial killers with better manners than those two." Blue eyes lift, prompting Hannibal to smooth his expression. They do not stay on him, however, instead focusing on something above Hannibal's right shoulder. "Miss Marinova, do you have a question for me?"

Hannibal manages to cover his surprise rather well as an accented female voice echoes in the silent room. "Yes, but... I am sorry. It can wait until Thursday."

Will sighs, lifting a hand to beckon the girl closer. "I don't think it will be any less crowded then."

A pause, then footsteps. Hannibal turns his head slightly to the right, catching a glimpse of brown hair pulled in a severe ponytail, a strong profile, before the young woman steps into the circle of light around Will's desk. Hannibal studies her with removed exactness, noting the richness of her features as one might the strokes that make up a painting. Large eyes, full lips, strong nose, high cheekbones, a generous splatter of beauty marks. She is not a delicate beauty, a visage of porcelain white.

She is, however, breathtaking.

"Good afternoon," she greets Hannibal. Her eyes skitter over his face, catching his eyes only briefly before falling to the bridge of his nose.

"Good afternoon," Hannibal offers back and settles to watch an exchange between two people united in their aversion of conversing with others.

"I don't need an extension," the woman begins. Will lets out a soft laugh; an answering smile pulls on the woman's lips before they smooth into a nervous line. "I just...I was wondering," she takes a breath, back straightening as she visibly steels herself. Hannibal sees Will's eyes narrow in interest, "Could I work alone for the final project?"

A beat of silence. Will places the paper he had been holding back on the desk and makes an effort to meet the woman's eyes. "Is there a problem with your group, Miss Marinova?"

"They are fine," the woman responds promptly. Her eyes dart to Hannibal; he offers her a bland smile and takes a step back.

"I will give you a moment," he says. Will grunts something affirmative, not taking his eyes from his pupil. Hannibal retreats to the shadowed seating area - far enough to provide Will and Miss Marinova with an illusion of privacy, but more than close enough to hear the words being spoken between them.

"Why do you wish to work alone?" Will asks. The question does not come out quite as surprised as he had no doubt intended it to be; Will is much too familiar with the need for privacy himself.

"I work better alone," the woman tries. Will simply looks at her and she deflates a bit. "They do not understand the material."

"I am sure that is not true," Will says, firm.

The woman smiles. It is an empty gesture. "They do not understand it the way I do."

"Is that a bad thing?" Will leans his weight against the desk, unconsciously drawing closer to the silent woman. Hannibal tracks the movement with some interest. On her end, Miss Marinova hardly seems to notice. She does not shy away, at any rate. "One could argue that this is the whole point behind group projects. Broadening your mind, that sort of thing."

The woman lifts her eyes from Will's desk. "I have already read the textbook, Professor Graham. I do not need to hear it regurgitated."

Another startled laugh. Will tries to cover it by clearing his throat, but Hannibal can see the light in his eyes. "I looked through the draft you submitted. I would hardly call it regurgitation. In fact, I found your group's take on the case very unique."

"Thank you," Miss Marinova says, no inflection in her words.

Will stills for a second, then closes his eyes and exhales deeply.

"Miss Marinova, group projects are meant to be a joint effort. If your group members are not doing their part, please bring it to my attention. Conversely, if you are not _letting_ them do their part, understand that I _will_ fail you." The woman flinches, eyes dropping back to the polished surface of Will's desk. "Am I clear?" Will presses.

"Yes."

"Good." Will sighs again, shoulders slumping. His reluctance to discipline her is obvious. "Viara," he says and Hannibal's eyes narrow, a spike of recognition lighting in his belly, "You are doing an amazing job. Don't push yourself so hard."

The woman nods. "Thank you, Professor Graham."

"I expect to see some changes in the final submission," Will adds. Viara nods again, adding a quiet, "I understand," whilst clutching the strap of her handbag.

"Have a good day, Professor Graham," she offers in parting, no sarcasm in her voice. She murmurs a quiet goodbye to Hannibal as well, not quite raising her eyes enough to catch his answering nod. The door clicks shut behind her.

"Great," Will grumbles, pressing a hand over his eyes.

"You like her," Hannibal states. Will lowers his hand to watch him advance, eyes falling on the picnic basket. Hannibal is pleased to see his body relax further.

"She's brilliant," Will agrees. The papers that had swallowed his desk are firmly pushed aside. "Table, or floor?" he asks.

Hannibal thinks of the soft swell of banitsa, the lush red peppers stuffed with ground banker and jasmine rice resting in the basket, and almost smiles at the irony. "Table. I will find a chair."

They work in silence for a bit, Will covering the table with a deep blue cloth while Hannibal arranges the food with the care of a maser-sculptor with a vision. Will's desk approximates a gallery exposition when he is done - the fancy kind, not the off-color Indie approximation. Will blinks at the spread of china and steaming food before lifting a dazed smile toward Hannibal.

Hannibal tries to tame his hungry grin.

Hannibal locates a folded metal chair, tucked away in a dark nook at the back of the classroom. Will tries to offer him his own, plushier seat. Hannibal refuses, then proceeds to transform the ugly chair into a throne merely by sitting on it. Will tries not to be too impressed.

"Tell me about her," Hannibal says once the food is halfway demolished and the wine has brought color to Will's cheeks.

"Viara?" Will asks. Hannibal notes the quickness with which the man had honed in on the topic and nods. Will shrugs. "Polite. Smart. Doesn't give me any trouble."

"You did not like having to scold her," Hannibal observes.

Will grimaces. "My dislike of confrontation is not news," he offers, a bit belated. Hannibal leans back into his chair.

"It is not. This is not about that." Will says nothing. "Do you see yourself in her, Will?"

Will spears a slick, red strip of the pepper's skin with his fork, but makes no move to lift it to his lips. "Yes," he says finally. "A bit. Even though I really shouldn't."

"Because she is your student?" Hannibal asks.

"Because we are nothing alike." Hannibal raises an eyebrow. Will shakes his head with a rueful laugh, then threads a hand through the curls that had fallen into his eyes. The bulky, black glasses have been folded away into his bag some time ago. "Alright, we share a certain degree of apathy, but the reasons are different."

"How so?"

"Really?" Will tilts his head, mouth still smiling but eyes steadily growing hard, "We're doing this here, now?" By _this_ , he of course means psychoanalysis. Hannibal gives a minute shake of his head.

"We are just talking, Will. It does not have to be about Miss Marinova."

Will gathers a bit of what he believes to be ground beef on the tip of his fork. Hannibal watches his lips shape about the mouthful, watches him chew and swallow. His hand lifts to support his chin, elbow resting on the chair's metal arm. He very consciously does not trace his own lips.

"It's fine. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about her anyway."

"Why is that?"

"She seems to be...struggling," Will says - words that could mean anything from the woman exhibiting mild anxiety to perpetuating acts of homicidal violence, coming from someone as used to darkness as Will. Hannibal is immediately interested.

"You said she is doing well in your class."

"It's not that." Will stares at his plate, brows bunched as he cards through memories and impressions Miss Marinova had left in his mind. "She is excelling academically, but socially she is - well, let's just say I would be sending her to Mister Rombard, if I thought he'd do anything beside quote Freud to her."

Hannibal allows his mouth to pull into a sardonic smile. "I would like to meet the revered Mister Rombard, one of these days."

Will snorts, "Believe me, you don't. They tried to inflict him on me, once."

Hannibal's smile stretches wider. "Not good?"

Will laughs. "So not good. I almost made him piss himself."

"Not at the table, Will," Hannibal scolds, still smiling. Will grunts in mirth. "You believe Miss Marinova will benefit from a visit to a psychiatrist."

Will's expression sobers remarkably fast. "Yeah. Nothing major, but. She barely talks to anyone, and when someone tries to talk with her she-" he cuts off. Hannibal waits patiently, taking a sip from his wine.

"It's like she becomes someone else," Will says finally. Hannibal pretends calm even as his skin itches over a rush of adrenaline, his mind sharpening with _interest_. "She smiles and chatters, but there is this manic air to it all - like her skin is about to burst." Will shakes his head. "She is _absent_ , Hannibal." Then, finally, an admission and the heart of the issue: "I can't read her."

"Perhaps it is an anxiety disorder," Hannibal offers. It certainly sounds like it, but the last of Will's words ring harshly in his ears.

Will is silent. For two minutes, there is nothing but the sound of his breathing between them.

"If I arrange it," he says finally, the words mere breaths themselves, "Will you see her? As a patient."

Hannibal inclines his head, pleased that he will not have to fabricate an occasion to find his way into the woman's company. "Of course."

Will exhales in a rush. "Thank you," he says, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"It is no trouble. Now," Hannibal smiles and reaches for the glinting blade of a serving knife. A small, round pound cake sits at his elbow, waiting to be dissected, "Tell me about the rest of your day."

Will obliges, and Hannibal willingly loses himself in the words of this singularly extraordinary man.

  

* * *

 

Will works fast when he is so inclined. Miss Marinova's name appears in Hannibal's schedule by the following afternoon, slotted for a quiet weekly spot on Friday mornings. There are no calls from the Academy or worried parents, so Will must have arranged it all on the down-low.

Hannibal is ever thankful that Will takes less care of himself than he does of others. Otherwise, he would have never allowed Hannibal as close as he had.

The rest of the week passes uneventfully. The last case Will had broken open put Jack off his back for a bit, which means Will's psyche is doing generally well. Hannibal is not quite ready with his next gift yet, so there is no pressure from the Chesapeake Ripper either. Itself a present for the profiler, so to speak.

Still, inactivity does not sit well with someone of Hannibal's inclinations. He finds he is looking forward to Friday's appointment more that he could have predicted.

Miss Marinova arrives at 9:50 on a gray Friday morning, ten minutes early. Hannibal, who had just gotten to the office himself, takes his time arranging the room to his liking. He listens to the woman move around in the waiting room, pleased when she does nothing more than take a seat on the low couch. So far, her manners have proven impeccable.

 Hannibal opens the door to his office two minutes before ten. "Miss Marinova?" he asks, a welcoming smile mellowing the lines of his face.

The woman stands quickly. She is wearing a dark charcoal suit, the thread smooth and rich. Beneath it peeks a soft shirt of deep purple. She had been donning jeans and a simple blouse on Tuesday. Hannibal reads a need to impress in her attire. "Doctor Lecter." She steps closer. Hannibal offers his hand and she takes it, palm slightly sweaty. "Viara is fine."

"Then please, call me Hannibal." Viara nods even as her eyes slip to a point below Hannibal's. Hannibal is very much certain she will attempt to circumvent any situation requiring her to speak his name. "If you would have a seat."

Viara sits gingerly in the chair Hannibal points out to her, resting her weight at the curved edge. Hannibal reclines in his own seat with more exaggeration than the action needs. After a few seconds, the woman mimics him - not quite relaxed, but no longer seeming on the verge of flight either. Her eyes flit over the room, more in reluctance to focus on Hannibal than any interest in its contents.

Hannibal considers and discards several methods of bringing his patient's attention where it belongs before settling on the most direct.

"Why are you here, Viara?"

The woman blinks at him, predictably nonplused. "I do not suppose 'my professor is making me' is an acceptable answer," she says carefully. Hannibal smiles back.

"Quite so."

Viara takes a breath. The tension is back under her skin, tightening her hands and the muscles around her eyes. "I am in mourning," she tells him, the words slow and careful. The accent makes them ring heavy, dig deep in the conversational thread that stretches between Hannibal and her.

"My condolences. Who did you lose?"

Viara's lips part. A soft breath emerges, then a quiet, "My mother."

"How long ago?"

"Just under a year."

"And when did you arrive in the United States?"

Brown eyes bounce up. Hannibal holds them, pleased.

"You are good," the woman says and then looks slightly stricken, the words likely slipping out without her mind's consent. Hannibal inclines his head in the mimicry of a bow.

Across from him, Viara assumes a more relaxed pose. "This is my first semester here." The confidence of her voice and body are obviously forced.

"Do you have any family left in Bulgaria?"

Another twitch. Viara does not ask how Hannibal had guessed her nationality, simply shakes her head. "No one I would call family." Hannibal says nothing for a few seconds, giving his patient a chance to expound on the topic. Viara squirms ever so subtly in her seat, but resists the need to fill the silence. Hannibal is unexpectedly and strangely impressed.

"Why did you come to the United States?" he asks. His voice rises smoothly, breaking the quiet like the fin of a shark sliding above water.

"To study." Viara compresses her lips, as if trapping words beneath them. The expression is strangely familiar, but Hannibal cannot quite place the resemblance. "Maybe to live," she adds after a moment.

"Why the United States? I imagine there were many options closer to home."

"I received a scholarship, and I-" she takes a breath, obviously torn between continuing and keeping her peace. "I wanted to be far away," she finishes.

That is not nearly all there is to it, but it seems a bit early to push. "What is your field?"

"Psychology."

"Criminal?"

Hannibal's eyes catch on the sudden quirk of Viara's lips. "When is it not?" The smile falters. "But no, nothing so selfless."

Hannibal is rarely surprised. Miss Marinova had managed to inspire the weightless feeling twice in a week. Her words offer a crossroad of meanings and implications; Hannibal chooses to pursue the shortest, for the sake of the newness of their relationship. "You believe criminal psychology to be a selfless field."

"Maybe 'practical' is a better word for it," Viara amends. Her eyes remain fixed a millimeter bellow Hannibal's, not quite peering inside. "Helpful to society."

"Helping society does not interest you."

Viara is utterly silent for the space of a heartbeat. "No," she says. "Not at all." Her eyes lift. Hannibal catches something in them, something that has him tearing past the many skins he wears in the span of a microsecond as he chases behind its meaning.

Then the eyes drop away and Viara is but a girl again, too young in her suit and dress shoes. Hannibal gives up the hunt with some reluctance. Gathering the coats of his doctor persona close around himself, he straightens in his seat and assumes an expression of cordial interest.

"Tell me, Viara, how are you finding life in the United States?"

Hannibal listens to a soft, uneven account in an English as jagged and beautiful and true as his once had been and wonders what he feels toward gentle Miss Marinova.

Boredom certainly is not it.


	2. Chapter 2

It is a Monday, and Mondays bring Will Graham to Hannibal's door.

Will is a terrible patient. Or he would be, had there been any actual therapy occurring between the walls of Hannibal's office. Once, Hannibal had enjoyed the theater of it immensely. Jack Crawford's servile politeness held much appeal, as did the irony of having Will's beautiful mind served for the Chesapeake Ripper to savor. He had a scalpel in hand and Will's marred skin at his disposal - a sacrifice offered freely to an uncaring god. Sliding just the right words at the wrong time into a fractured mind, Hannibal had delighted at watching the man crumble and call it healing.

Hannibal still finds satisfaction in the power he has over Will in his cabinet, still finds pleasure in stuttered conversations about gorgeous murders and heady, prophetic dreams. Yet, a certain lack had come to his attention recently - an absence that had not been previously known and thus had not been missed. Hannibal feels rather cheated; all the more so because the reason had been his own arrogance.

The Will that sits in a leather chair across from Hannibal is not the same man who smiles at Hannibal over a meal shared on a picnic blanket in a darkened classroom. He does not share his days as freely, does not let pieces of himself slip through his mouth like breadcrumbs from Hansel's fingers. Hannibal is mildly irritated to find himself learning more about Will Graham in three short afternoons than he had over three months as his unofficial therapist. And all it had taken was a change of setting.

As a passionate patron of the high arts, Hannibal should have remembered the value a suitable backdrop adds to the story's tone. The fact that he had not, that he had stumbled into a more private part of Will's mind by accident rather than design is galling. Naturally, he plans to take utmost advantage of this unexpected boon. He will carve his initials deep into the softness of the hand Will has extended in friendship. The need to possess the man who delivers brilliant lectures with his eyes down and his shoulders hunched, who eats banitsa with his hands and bites at his lips to get at stray drops of wine is overwhelming. Hannibal does not believe in denying himself pleasure.

A quiet creak tugs Hannibal's attention back to the physical confines of his office. Will is staring at him cautiously from across two feet of empty space - ever shrinking, inch by inch with every session. The forced intimacy is not something Will would overlook. It remains unremarked upon. Currently, Will has his hands wrapped loosely around the arms of his chair, fingers pressing down into the swell where the leather had been sewn over padding and wood. Hannibal's eyes catch on the contrast between Will's white skin and the dark suppleness of the leather. A flash of inspiration has him picturing the man bare, legs spread and feet planted firmly on the floor. He would look at Hannibal just like this - a mixture of anticipation and shame and fear. Hannibal licks his lips, nostrils flaring. The air would taste of musk.

"That's pretty much it," Will offers at length, words somewhat hesitant. He is used to Hannibal's moments of silence, reads them as an encouragement to talk. Sometimes, he is right. "Things have been quiet. Jack seems happy. Happier. He is yelling less, at least."

"You look well," Hannibal tells him. Will looks away, as ever unused to anything resembling a compliment. "Perhaps you should consider taking a sabbatical."

Will's laugh lacks humor. "Right. I can't imagine Jack going for that, somehow."

Hannibal leans forward in his chair. The motion distracts Will's eyes from the possessive anger that minutely tightens Hannibal's lips. "Tell me Will, if Jack was not an issue, would you sever your association with the FBI?"

Will's fingernails bite into the armrests. "I...might."

"Even with the Chesapeake Ripper still at large?"

Will exhales noisily. "That's - I never wanted to catch him."

"You do not want the glory of catching a serial killer with an untold body count to his name?"

Will shakes his head. "I want him to stop killing. Other than that, I - I don't care. He is not _my_ white whale."

Hannibal forebears from asking what the Ripper is to Will. It is unlikely that Will would be able to provide an honest answer at this point. "Would that make you the Ishmael to Jack's Ahab?"

Will grins at his hands. "It would probably make me the goddamn _boat_."

Hannibal's lips quirk at the edges. "Have you thought about it?"

"About being a boat?"

Willful boy. "About not doing what you do. About becoming something else."

Will looks up. His glasses glint momentarily, reflecting the light of the dying sun. "Someone else, you mean."

Hannibal assumes a mildly questioning look. "Do you see yourself as synonymous to your work, Will?"

"More like a footnote in the definition," Will mutters.

"That is hardly healthy."

Will's expression shutters off. "I never claimed to be healthy. I am in a psychiatrist's office, for God's sake." He pushes to his feet and circles the chair, back to Hannibal. The line of his shoulders in uneven and tense.

Hannibal stands. He does not approach Will. Instead, he makes his way to his desk. The silence between them weighs heavy, unsaid words dark shapes beneath a calm surface. Hannibal thinks that if he pushes now, Will might push back. The thrilling pleasure of the prospect tempts him towards ruin. His hand reaches for the scalpel sat beside a pencil at the center of the desk, the action almost unconscious.

Will's voice is a haggard exhale. "How did Friday go?"

Hannibal's hand drops back to the edge of the desk, empty. "I assume you are referring to my session with Miss Marinova." Will does not bother to respond. He has moved to the bookcase, fingers gentle against the spines of books in languages he cannot read. Hannibal does not find the intrusion offensive; recently, he hardly sees it as an intrusion at all. It seems but natural to have Will here, making a space for himself among Hannibal's possessions.

"Is she okay?" Will asks.

"She is my patient, Will."

"I know. I am not asking you to disclose anything private. Just," Will's right hand tears through his hair, tangling in messy curls before falling limply to his side. He half-turns; just enough to be able to see Hannibal from behind the frame of his glasses. "Just tell me if she's okay. She is my responsibility, you know."

Hannibal's eyes sharpen. As Will's therapist, he should be disabusing him of that notion - of the belief that every stray, every orphaned life is somehow and in some way his.

Instead, he holds Will's eyes and says, "She is mine, as well."

Will's breath stutters in his chest, a rasp of a sound he tries to hide with words. "Are you always this possessive over your patients?" Will asks and smiles like it is a joke, like Hannibal had not thought about swallowing him whole and keeping him within himself, always.

"Rarely."

Will flushes and ducks his head. He turns back toward the bookcase, resuming his sedate pacing.  

"Miss Marinova mentioned that you are discussing Zimbardo's work in class. Specifically, his lecture on the psychology of evil."

"We are." Will urges a book out of its bed. He examines the cover before parting it open, fingers careful. "She did not seem too impressed."

Hannibal had not thought to ask Miss Marinova her opinion of Zimbardo's evaluation of evil. It seems a rather important topic in retrospect - a flower among weeds of personal tidbits Viara had related. Viara being currently inaccessible, Hannibal will have to content himself with Will and Will's mind and his view on the evil he sees in others.

It is hardly a conciliatory prize.  

"Were you?"

Will is silent in a way that speaks of deep thought. He closes the book, places it back in its place. Resumes pacing.

"No," Will says at length. "I was not."

Hannibal had not been, either. "Why?"

"It was too convoluted, his explanation of it. Too simplistic."

"It is either one or the other, Will."

Will shakes his head. His back is still to Hannibal. Hannibal's hand still hungers for the scalpel. "You've seen it, haven't you? The presentation he has to go with the lecture."

"Pictures of the Holocaust, the genocide in Rwanda, among others," Hannibal recalls. Dramatic images set to morbid music, Zimbardo's voice a somber drone over it all. Tasteless. 

Will is nodding his head, as if in response to Hannibal's thoughts.

"Terrifying. As in, meant to terrify."

"You do not approve."

Will's head bows. "He talks about mental illness," he says. "The importance of treatment."

"Just before bringing up Adolf Hitler, if I remember correctly." Will snorts; it all goes back to Hitler, sooner or later. The man had gathered enough infamy to rule the ages. "I believe I understand why you call the lecture both basic and convoluted."

"The lecture is an assembly of questions. Is evil an act? A state of being? Does a man have to be insane to commit evil acts, or is he perfectly normal until he picks up the shotgun and starts firing into a crowd?" Will shakes his head. "Zimbardo does not offer answers. He shows people nightmares and tells them the Boogeyman lives in their heads."

Hannibal is certain Will is shaking. He thinks he can see the pulse of muscle spasms beneath the coarse thread of his shirt. He wishes to touch Will's skin and feel their dance - to spread a hand at the center of Will's back, over the raised wings of his shoulder blades. Press down, down, until either the man kneels or the bone shatters.

"Do you oppose the circular logic, or the theory that evil lives in all of us?"

"I oppose the concept of evil." Hannibal watches Will intently. Will watches the wall. "I oppose the idea that someone does something just for the horror of it while knowing - _believing_ \- it to be wrong. Not one of the murderers I have profiled fits that criteria and there's been plenty of them, trust me."

"That does not change their actions."

"Reality exists differently for every person. Their actions fit the world they see."

"Which brings us back to insanity as a motivator for what Zimbardo terms evil." Hannibal's eyes are on the gentle arch of Will's neck. He is grateful that Will refuses to face him; he is not certain he can make himself look away in time.

Will shakes his head. "Most people with mental issues do not go carving up bodies."  

"But people who do are not considered sane."

Will half-turns, a stagger of a motion. His eyes go no farther than Hannibal's mouth. "Do _you_ agree with Zimbardo?"

Hannibal considers his response carefully. It is obvious why this conversation is important to Will, a man who falls into the minds of killers with an ease that often borders on joy. It is important to Hannibal, too, in so far that it involves Will and a chance to shape his understanding of their shared reality.

"I believe that we are what we are."

Will's eyes climb a couple of inches to meet Hannibal's before falling back to his lips, tracing the shape of the words that leave them.

"I have come to be convinced in the unavoidability of certain outcomes. A situation is merely that - what a man does when faced with an event beyond his control is entirely up to his inner workings. In the blood, so to speak." Will stands by the wooden stag, as he often does. Hannibal watches Will's fingers slide mindlessly through the thorny crown of the stag's antlers. He wonders if Will would accept it, were he to present the carving as a gift. "What do you think, Will?"

Will's mouth quirks in a jagged curve. "Nature versus nurture? A banal question, doctor."

"Nature versus response to outside stimuli," Hannibal corrects. Will's eyebrows dip over his eyes, disappearing behind the rim of his glasses.

"You know you are offering me a choice between two identical concepts, right?"

Hannibal tilts his head. The afternoon sun paints shadows over his eyes. They slide between the scant swell of his lips, as if chasing after the sound of his voice.

"So I am."

Will snorts, mirth coloring his tone as he turns back toward the stag. "Some mighty good odds you've got there."

Hannibal's smile is too vicious to be called one. "I do not play to lose, Will."

Bright, clever, good Will laughs. His shoulders shake with his humor, sending the longest tufts of curly brown hair puffing upward.

Hannibal's hand closes around the edge of his desk and presses against smooth wood in the stead of pale, stubble-studded skin.

 

* * *

 

Will stares at the pixelated clock at the bottom right of his computer screen. His eyes water with the strain. The tiny numbers making up the time change too slowly, uncaring for his misery.

The classroom is quiet except for the occasional shuffle of papers or click of a dropped pen. Will takes a perfunctory look around; rows of bowed heads meet his gaze. His students likely have a different perception of time.

The thought brings yesterday's conversation with Hannibal to mind. Will's hands clench against his thighs beneath the desk. He had been much too emotional. Too transparent. Hannibal probably said half of those things out of pity.

Except that does not fit with the profile Will has been composing of the older man. Hannibal does not pity others, does not hold back words to spare feelings when he believes the feelings themselves might be wrong. He would not have called Will his friend if he had. Will would not have let him.

Will glances back at his laptop. Five minutes left. He spends them looking through the slides of his next lecture, double checking sources and making sure he has enough material to fill an hour and a half. He suspects he has too much, but does not bother taking anything out just yet. If anything, he will subtract the follow-up discussion about Zimbardo's lecture. He's had enough of talking about it as it is.

The thin, high-pitched sound of his phone alarm has about half the class jumping in their seats. The scratch of pens grows frantic as Will calls for the test. He has to get up and physically collect it from several students. By the time the last person surrenders their exam it is quarter to three and Hannibal is standing by his desk, now-familiar picnic basket in hand. His suit is a dark gray today, interspersed with thin stripes the color of a green sea. Will thinks he should probably be embarrassed by the way his entire body seems to focus on the man as soon as he is in sight.

He certainly is a second later, when he realizes Hannibal is not alone.

"Question for me, Miss Marinova?"

Viara straightens. She stands a fair distance from Hannibal, almost on the other side of the desk. Will is still left with the impression of them standing together, side by side.

The woman shakes her head. "I wanted to thank you. To tell you that I am okay. And..." she seems unable to continue. Will looks to Hannibal. The man's expression is politely blank.

"Miss Marinova was just telling me that she wants to make it so I can discuss her therapy with you."

Will's eyes slide back to Viara. The woman nods. Will's chest feels warm and cold in turn. He wants to demand a reason, wants to say no - this is too much responsibility, it had been too much the very moment he spoke to Hannibal about Viara. "Are you certain?" he asks her instead.

"Yes." There is no hesitation in her voice, at least. "I don't mind."

"You don't have to. I won't think you are - hiding something, or-" but Viara is shaking her head, so Will finishes with a quiet, "If you are sure."

"I am."

Will exhales. "Okay, then. There will be some papers to fill out, I suppose?"

Hannibal inclines his head. "I will fax them over later today."

"Okay," Will repeats. He walks around his desk and places the stack of sweat-damp papers atop it. "How did you find the exam?"

"Fair," Viara says. A bit of the tension in her shoulders leeches out. "I think I might have rambled a bit on the essay question."

"You will learn to write concisely once you're actually submitting reports to people who don't care about reading them." Will's smile mirrors Viara's. "I do have some bad news, though. I graded your project."

"How bad was it?"

Will grimaces. "I gave it a B-. It deserved a C." Viara's lips thin.

 "Please, give it a C."

Will blinks, sure he had misheard. A glance at Hannibal reveals the man looking at Viara. "What?"

"I read what they wrote," Viara shrugs. "C is too magnanimous, if you ask me." Will flounders for words.

"It is your project, as well." Hannibal's voice is devoid of emotion, of judgment. Will feels as if he should look around, half expecting to find himself in the man's office. "Do you not care about the grade it receives?"

Viara lifts her head, squares her chin - a proud motion at odds with her usual reticence. "I do. I am proud of my work." Hannibal nods in acceptance.

"Did your group meet? To discuss, work together." Viara nods stiffly. "Did you share your opinion of the project's overall quality?"

"Yes." Hannibal regards Viara with a familiarly expectant expression. Will is somehow mollified to see it work on her as well as it does on him.

"Shall I paraphrase, or do you want the direct quote?" There is a bite to Viara's words, steel in her spine. Will reaches out and feels a bit of her, for the first time: wounded pride, shame, anger at being ashamed. The borrowed emotions curdle in his chest.

Hannibal inclines his head. "Quote, please."

" _Nobody cares for this shit but you and Graham_." Viara recites. "Closely followed by a comment regarding my sex life, or lack thereof." Her lips curve into a small, bitter smile.

Will cannot think of a thing to say. Hannibal retains his smooth expression, but does not appear to be faring much better.

"It's fine." Viara says. She waves her hand in a dismissive gesture that comes off defensive. "I'm fine. The whole thing was stupid."

"Yes," Will croaks. He clears his throat. "It - No, it wasn't stupid. It was inappropriate."

"Highly," Hannibal agrees. Will spares him a glance, somehow caught by the tone of the man's voice. Hannibal looks placidly back. Will brings his attention back to Viara, who is back to staring at his desk.

"I still can't let you work alone, but I will-" he considers what he can do. There is terribly little, thanks to the rigid course guidelines provided by the local district. Will thinks through the requirements. An idea strikes him and he smiles, pleased. "I will grade each person's contribution to the project separately."

Viara glances up. "Wouldn't that be too much work?"

"Don't worry about it. That's what they pay me to do. Well, that and look at dead bodies." Will grins harder and adds, "I do care for this shit."

Viara lets out a startled laugh. Her right hand clamps over her mouth immediately, eyes darting from Will to Hannibal - checking for their reactions. Will does not allow himself to frown. Viara is still smiling when the hand drops away, at least.

"Me too," she says.

They say their goodbyes. Neither Hannibal nor Will speak until Miss Marinova is well out of the room and earshot.

"That wasn't good," Will mutters.

"I would not say that." Hannibal places the picnic basket atop the desk.

"She is being bullied."

"That is not certain. It might be that this is the kind of relationship her classmates have with each other. She just happened to be assigned to a rude crowd." The curl of Hannibal's lip speaks to how distasteful he finds the prospect. Will is forced to agree.

"Forget that, then. But don't tell me it's normal to be worried what people think about you _laughing_ at a _joke_."

Hannibal's hand pauses, half-buried in the basket's body. "Her reaction could be a sign of a deeper issue," he allows.

Will closes his eyes. He feels the urge to rub at his temples, even though he is not - for once - suffering from a headache. "Keep me updated about her therapy. Please."

Hannibal is silent in the way a man with much to say is. Will feels a vague throbbing start behind his left eye.

"What."

"Have you visited Abigail Hobbs recently?"

"Yes. Whenever I can. I am going by tomorrow, in fact." Will cannot make himself look up. He focuses on Hannibal's hands instead, traces long fingers handling napkins curved over cutlery that shines with the overhead lights. "Don't," he says. "It's not the same."

"What are you asking me not to do?" A plate appears in front of Will. A napkin. Will traces the sharp points of a fork that protrude from within the folded cloth.

"Don't compare Viara with Abigail. Don't call Abigail my daughter. Just - don't."

Hannibal's hand reaches over the desk. Will watches it extend over his, watches it descend over the tight fist he has made of his fingers. The warmth of the man's flesh seeps into his. He thinks it nice with an abstract sort of detachment. "You are a good man, Will," Hannibal says. "Both Miss Marinova and Miss Hobbs would be happy to have you as a father."

Will's breath shudders out of him, leaving his lungs empty and his throat tight. "Until I snap and turn them into meatloaf." He presses the hand not pinned against the table by Hannibal's weight to his face and squeezes his eyes shut. The back of his eyelids seem painted red. "Fuck, Hannibal - you have no idea how fucked up my mind is. How much worse it's gonna get."

"I have faith in you, Will." Hannibal's hand bears down, the pressure gentle but unrelenting. Slowly, Will's fingers uncurl. They lace through with Hannibal's, slotting together neatly. No empty spaces. Will watches them and shivers.

"You have to help me," he says. The forks and knives glint, the china is bare skin, and his hand belongs in Hannibal's. "You have to be here." Will looks up, at Hannibal, eyes wide and unseeing. It feels like they are bleeding; his cheeks are warm with it, slick with red - like peeled fruit. He feels raw all over. "You said it. You said she's yours, too - her and Abigail. Promise me, Hannibal." Will's fingers tangle with the larger ones holding them prisoners, nails digging in cruelly. "You will be here. With me. Promise!"

Footsteps, one after the other. The hand tugs away before it draws much closer. Another wraps around the back of Will's neck. "I promise." His head is forced down, down. Will sighs and moves closer, until he is enveloped fully in Hannibal's warmth and smell. Until there is nowhere else to go. A part of him knows this is not right, feels shame and self-pointed disgust at his weakness even now. But the darkness is encroaching, the madness is calling, and Hannibal's arms seem an oasis in a desert made of broken glass.

"You will stay?"

"Always," Hannibal promises. The darkness is in his voice, too. It is not the kind Will fears. He opens his mouth, breathes it in, and knows nothing more for a long while.


	3. Chapter 3

The body stands upon an altar.

There are flowers arranged around it - bouquets of lush, red roses that curl over the woman's naked chest to cover the swell of her breasts, spill down on either side of her hips in a cascading wave. Her abdomen is left bare. The concave curve of it glistens wetly, almost a flower itself. A gorgeous bloom of exposed muscle.

"He cleaned her off," Beverly says. She is looking at the corpse with the flat, fixed stare of someone who would rather be doing anything else. "Intestines, stomach, liver. Even the appendix. The uterus is the only thing he left, but it's sliced through."

Will moves forward. The woman's arms are stretched in front of her chest, palms curved up. An oval shape lies in the dip of her cold hands.

"We didn't want to move anything before you got a chance to see it." Beverly keeps her distance. Will is glad. "Zeller thinks there might be something inside the egg."

Will looks up. The woman's eyes are closed. Her face is slack and calm, her head bowed in supplication. She is arranged to face the pews. Her body is pulled up so it hangs parallel to the large cross mounted on the back wall. Dark brown hair falls in curls down her back. Red petals sit in a circle along its crown; a halo of bood.

A shudder wracks up Will's spine. He blinks twice and swallows. Then he ducks under the outstretched arms and peers into the bowl of the corpse's stomach.

It is as Beverly had said: The abdominal cavity has been emptied completely, major blood vessels cauterized as to minimize the bleeding. The killer wanted the body as pure as it could be. Even the edges of the dissection cuts are smooth, the skin tucked inward to create an illusion of wholeness - an offering of life rather than death. Will hopes the woman was dead when her killer began this act of creation.

The uterus is largely intact. There is a single, vertical slash along its side - not unlike the cut a doctor may make during a C-section. Will measures its length with his fingers, then looks up to the egg. About the same size.

"She is offering her child," he murmurs.

"To whom?"

 _To me_. Will grinds his teeth shut. "I don't know." The words taste like lies. "Did anyone do a background check on her yet?"

"Mary Cadwell. A Sister in this parish, forty-four. No children, obviously. She spent five years as an aid worker in Kosovo, from 1993 to 1998." Beverly is reading off a file one of the somber-faced agents on scene had handed to her. Will studies the red blooms pressed against cold, white skin.

"The height of the war."

"Yeah. Brave woman. Shit," paper crinkles beneath Beverly's fingers. "It's him, isn't it. The Ripper."

"Yes," Will says. Blood stains the floor.

The roses had been white, when he begun.

There is music. Voices rise and fall in the near distance, a solemn march toward benediction. She kneels at his feet, unaware of his presence at her back.

He presses her bowed head sharply down. A cracking sound, and she is pitching forward. He catches her body before her lips touch the ground. The break is high up and deep, possibly at the C1 vertebrate.

She is still alive.

Her breathing is becoming impaired. She cannot move anything below her neck. He closes her eyes for her, lays her on a cold, stone table and undresses her. The knife curves like a moon above her stomach. Its touch studs rubies into the softness of her skin.

Will comes to himself with a gasp. He had not been aware of closing his eyes, of going under. His hand is pressed against his own stomach hard enough to bruise.

"Shit, warn me before you go and do that." Beverly approaches him slowly. "You okay?" Will shakes his head and swallows dryly. Beverly trusts a water bottle at him. It takes Will a moment to coordinate his hands enough to accept it.

"What did you see?"

Will blinks up at Jack. He had not heard the man come in. A look around the room reveals that they are alone. Will wonders how long he had been on display before Jack scared the rest of the FBI-appointed agents away.

"Will."

"It happened during mass," Will says. "He didn't do it here. This is the main stage; the backroom is somewhere else."

 "Where? And how the hell did no one hear anything?"

A rose has fallen from its arrangement against the woman's chest. Its head lolls toward Will, the bloom too heavy for its stalk. "She didn't scream. Didn't have the time. She was in - a tomb. A crypt?"

"There's one on the grounds," Beverly agrees. Jack turns to look at her and she holds up a hand, already in motion. "I'm on it."

Jack's attention turns back to Will - heavy and expectant and relentless. Will has nothing left to give. He feels Jack's disappointment drip down his throat, like tar.

"What is it this time? Art? Religion?" Jack snorts, kicking at another fallen bloom. The flower smears red against the ground and Jack's shoe. "Has the Ripper found God?"

"No." Will traces petals turned burgundy with dried blood. "He is showing us that he can be God - or at least _a_ god. He can give life, and he can take it."

Jack snorts, losing interest in a conversation rapidly turning impractical. "So can the rest of the population. He's done, you can start cleaning up."

"Can't wait," Zeller mutters. Price is making sounds of disgust in his throat, trotting in behind him. "Okay, let's get that thing down from there."

Will staggers some steps away from the corpse. He very resolutely does not look as Zeller reaches for the egg balanced on the woman's palms.

 _You can't have it. It's mine_.

Will stares at his feet and tries not to think.

More people invade the room - agents brandishing cameras, others in plastic suits. Will wants to leave, but his car is back at Wolf Trap and he has long forgotten the name of the agent who picked him up.

Jack gives him a _look_ and says, "Agent Katz will drive you back." Will translates this to mean he is staying until Jack gives the all-clear. He tries not to be too bitter, but it is hard on three hours of sleep. Not counting the two hours he had been unconscious in his own classroom, with an untold portion of the time spent in Hannibal Lecter's arms.

"What did you find?"

"It _was_ the crypt," Beverly says, words high and breathy. Will blinks at her, wondering when she had appeared. "The whole place's filled with roses, except one tomb. It's where he cut her up, the stone looks like it's been painted red, and-" She stops, eyes sliding to Will.

Will closes his eyes. "He left her insides there."

Beverly pushes on. Her voice drips loathing. "Just the stomach. There's something wrong with it, though. Can't be sure until the lab results come in, but it looks like a tumor."

"Dead woman walking." Will ignores the exasperated look Jack throws his way. "She is asking someone to take care of her child after she is gone."

Beverly snorts. "Yeah, except she really wasn't-"

"Holy shit!" Zeller squeals most manfully and fumbles with the egg. "It's hatching!"

Will is not aware of running. He is simply and suddenly at Zeller's side, wrestling the fragile egg from his hold. "Don't drop it," he snarls, fingers curling over a crumbling shell.

Zeller does not put up much of a fight; in fact he almost shoves the egg in Will's hands, expression twisted in a disgusted grimace. Will pays him no mind. His hands remain cupped, supporting the egg as the creature within it struggles to escape the confines of a hard-walled womb. Bits of white break off here and there, leaving behind hollow cracks.

"Oh," Will murmurs as a small, wet head finally protrudes from within jagged crystal, "There you are."

"What is it?" Beverly moves closer, just to backpedal sharply. "Fuck, Graham, it's a snake!"

Will nods. A thin, forked tongue curls into the air. Will offers his index finger. The snake tastes him, then slides further out of the shell's protective embrace.

"You think it's venomous?" Beverly asks.

"Probably," Will mutters. The Ripper would not leave him - _them_ , the FBI - an imperfect gift. The snake slithers out and curls its body around Will's index and middle fingers, barely long enough to manage a single loop. It's head angles up, round black eyes studying Will intently. Will smiles down at it and holds still.

"Shit. Hold on a moment. Don't move." Price disappears. Will pays him no mind, head tilting this way and that to match the snake's wobbly movements.

"You could look a little less happy," Beverly mutters. She has drawn nearer but not nearly close enough to be within biting distance.

"It's beautiful," Will says, because it is true. The snake's head and tail are a rich, sunset orange that deepens on its belly. Coral blue dyes the scales on its sides, the color fading to midnight black along its back. Will tries to remember someone giving him a nicer gift, and cannot. Then he tries to remember that the snake is not his to keep. It is a similarly doomed endeavor.

"Okay, hand it over."

Will's eyes flit to his right. Price has found a large jar somewhere. He  tilts it forward and nods meaningfully down at it, then at the snake in Will's hands.

"No," Will says.

"Graham."

"It's dirty," he protests. Indeed, the jar is stained with something yellow at the bottom.

"It's a _snake_ ," Price says and Will wants to punch him. It's _not_ , not _just_ \- can they not see that?

"Special Agent Graham," Jack growls. "That snake is evidence. Surrender it immediately."

Will closes his eyes. Exhales. He extends his hand slowly toward the jar. The snake's tongue flicks against his fingers once, twice, three times. Its body coils tighter, as if in response to his stormy emotions. "Easy now, here we go," Will mutters to it and touches the edge of the jar. The snake slides down his fingers, driven by curiosity. It goes further and further down the inside of the glass wall until only the bright tip of its tail touches Will's skin.  

Price abruptly rights the jar. The snake falls to its bottom and then springs up on coiled muscles, but Price has already fixed the metal lid. "There we are."

"Air holes," Will grinds out.

"Right." Price walks away. Will holds very still and tries to breathe through his nose instead of gulping loud mouthfuls of air. The way Jack is looking at him - like he's something wild and possibly prickly - does not help his temper.

"You are free to go." Jack says at length. "Agent Katz, please drive Graham back home."

"Sure thing." Beverly touches his arm with her fingertips. "You ready?"

Will breaks away abruptly. His feet carry him in direction of the parking lot but he has no awareness of it. Everything is painted red.

After a couple of silent seconds, footsteps echo behind him.

"Did you really want to keep the snake?" Beverly asks, much later. The lights of her car paint Will's driveway gold. Dogs bark in the distance.

Will remains silent until the car stops. He gets out, closes the door tightly without slamming it even though his hands shake with a need to destroy. Beverly steps out on the other side, but only partially. She keeps one foot inside the car.

Will meets her questioning eyes and says, slow and careful less he screams:

"I want to make my own goddamn decisions."

When he walks away this time, Beverly is wise enough not to follow.

 

* * *

 

Will had planned to visit Abigail on Wednesday. He had cleared his whole day just for that, made plans to take her out somewhere nice for lunch. After, they would walk around the city. Go to a museum, perhaps, or take a walk in the park and talk and maybe even enjoy themselves. Play at normality.

Instead, Will had woken up at six AM to an insistent pounding at his door, three missed calls from Jack and a fourth one in progress, and a bed soaked through with sweat. He had barely had time to shower, none at all to stand in front of his open fridge and blush furiously at the Beef Wellington tucked inside. A yellow stick-it note - one of Will's own - sat perched atop the cellophane cover. _Preheat oven at 80_ _°C and cook for 10 to 12 minutes,_ the flowing cursive instructed. Will had blinked down at the note, mind caught on the Celsius sign. He spent a solid minute trying to remember if his oven had a setting for Celsius.

Then Will was being hauled off into a nondescript black car, pushed out into a yellow-taped garden belonging to a small Orthodox church, made to look at a corpse wreathed in bloody roses and perform for an audience that feared and coveted him in turns. By the time he had made it home - sans a pretty snake and plus a roaring headache - it had been well past visiting hours at the Home. Abigail had been understanding over the phone but Will knew she was disappointed, could imagine the dull drag of days spent under cautious scrutiny like it was him in there and not her. He had ended the call feeling worse. For some reason, he could not quite unclench his fingers from around his phone.

Tired, hungry, half-out of his mind, Will had dialed Doctor Lecter's number from memory and waited for the man to pick up, never doubting that he would. Never wondering if he should be calling in the first place.

"Will."

"Hannibal." There had been nothing professional in Will's voice, nothing detached. Just pain and longing. For what, he was not certain. He had trusted Hannibal to know.

"Will, are you alright?"

Will had laughed until his throat went sore. Hannibal let him.

"Sorry," he had whispered after, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have - and after yesterday-"

"Have you eaten yet, Will?"

Will shook his head, then remembered himself and muttered a quiet, "No."

"The whole day?"

Will tried to remember. "Beverly gave me water." Hannibal's sigh seemed to echo down the line.

"You overworked yourself-" Will interrupted with a rather rude snort. Hannibal backtracked smoothly, "Jack overworked you, and you have not eaten. Your body is overwrought."

"So you're saying I should eat something and stop being a drama queen?"

"I am saying you should eat something. Did you see my note?"

"Yeah. Celsius. Jesus," Will had gotten up, wandering into the kitchen almost mindlessly. His head was in the fridge before he quite realized it. The cold air helped clear his mind a bit. "The Beef Wellington looks good. Looks amazing, actually."

"Thank you, although I would rather you eat it than offer me compliments."

Hannibal had then proceeded to walk Will through reheating the food, arranging the sides of potatoes and herbed broccoli, setting the plate. Slowly, Will joined in - he had no wine, sorry, and really Hannibal? Candles? Will had eaten his (truly exceptional, perfectly reheated) dinner with the phone on speaker and Hannibal's voice around him, warm and safe. It was like they were dining together, sharing their respective days - Hannibal's included less dead people and more crying patients, apparently - and it had felt good.

Thankfully, Will had realized exactly how _good_ it felt only after his food was gone and the phone was off. Otherwise, he might have said something embarrassing and rude in pure self-defense and ruined the tentative friendship he and Doctor Lecter have managed to build.

Or something. They definitely have _something_. Will tries very hard not to poke at it too much, less he figures out exactly what it is. Something tells him he is not quite ready for that knowledge yet. Thinking of it now is certainly unsettling. Will stares at his computer morosely and wonders how he will face Hannibal next Monday.

Students start to file in ten minutes before one. There is about twenty of them, a good size if Will wants to hold discussions in addition to the lecture. Will does not. He mutters distracted hellos in response to those he receives, barely making eye-contact.

"Prof."

A hand presses against the edge of Will's desk, well into his territory. Will traces its length up to an unfortunately familiar face.

"Mister Dungan."

"Yeah, Nathaniel is fine. Listen," Nathaniel lowers his voice and leans in; Will leans back. "I saw the grade for our group project and it wasn't good." His friend - a Mister Rosari, if Will recalls correctly - nods urgently at Nathaniel's side.

"Well, you did warn me," Will mutters. Nathaniel looks confused for several seconds before visibly shrugging the words off.

"Yeah, whatever. Could you maybe do something about it?"

"About what?" Will asks slowly.

Nathaniel looks at him like he is being purposefully obtuse. Which, to be fair, Will is being, but it is mostly for the younger man's benefit. "The grade. C'mon, man, I know you did it for that Vera chick."

"Viara," Will corrects automatically. "Wait. What?"

Nathaniel rolls his eyes. "I saw her stay after class on Tuesday, and then her group gets a B- while everyone else gets like, maybe a C+? Yeah, okay." He snorts.

Will hears his heartbeat like a distant drum beneath the skin of his temples. "C-," he says and keeps his hands flat against his desk, perfectly still.

"What?"

"Miss Marinova's group received a C-, a fact that is none of your business."

"But Joel said-"

"I don't _care_ what Mister Sabinski had to say on the topic. Incidentally, Mister Dungan, I neither like your tone nor the insinuations you are making. Take your seat before I ask you to vacate it permanently."

Mister Rosari is long gone, hiding somewhere in the shadowed seating area. Nathaniel backs away slowly. His eyes are wide, his hands lifted up in front of his body in a half-realized gesture of placation. Will realizes he is staring into the younger man's eyes - glaring in a fixed, hungry way that might belong to one of the murderers living in his head as easily as to himself. Even then, it takes some time before Will can make himself look away.

Nathaniel slides into the first available seat like his legs had been chopped away at the knees. Will tries to pretend he does not imagine just that happening and blows the lecture slides up on the large screen.

"Good afternoon. We will begin today's lecture with a study of the most recent of the Chesapeake Ripper's crime scenes. I hope you had a light lunch."

Nobody speaks the entire hour and a half, not even in the spots Will had purposefully left open for questions. Will cannot quite make himself care. He is even somewhat pleased at how quickly the hall clears out when he is done. At least he won't have to answer stupid questions or parry veiled attempts at sycophancy. There is a possibility for future problems with the Student Affairs office. He will deal with them if they come up.

Someone pauses at the end of his desk. Will does not have to look up to know who it is.

"I am sorry."

"There's nothing you should be sorry about," Will says. He makes an effort to smile up at Viara. It feels and probably looks fake, a mimicry of joy.

The woman's expression does not lighten. "One of the girls asked me about the grade before class. Joel overheard. He's in my group-"

"Is he the one that insulted you?" Will snaps. Viara blinks at him. Will closes his eyes and threads a hand through his hair. "Sorry, now I'm the one being inappropriate. Anyway, forget it. You can't control what other people do or say."

"Or think," Viara mutters.

"Or think. Just - let me know if anyone is giving you any trouble. Me or Doctor Lecter." Will makes himself hold Viara's eyes until she nods. "Alright. Have - have fun. A nice day," he finishes weakly.

Hannibal said he'd make a good father. He should hear him now.

"Thank you." Viara steps away from the desk, then seems to hesitate. Will tries to appear reliable and welcoming and trustworthy, of which he is exactly none. Still, it seems to work because Viara takes a breath and then says, "What happened to the snake?" words quick and quiet.

Will wonders why she is bringing up this particular detail. It had been a part of the lecture, sure, but he would have thought people would pay more attention to the woman missing most of her internal organs. Perhaps he had put more significance in discussing the snake than he had thought - or wanted. If Viara had picked up on it, it only speaks good of her observational skills.

Viara's reasons aside, the question itself is not one Will wants to answer. He is not quite over it yet. Still, he finds himself opening his mouth, saying "They put it down," equally soft.

Beverly had called him early this morning. She had said she's sorry. Will knows it wasn't her call but could not bring himself to tell her so. He had clicked the _end_ button and turned off his phone instead.

"Oh." Viara's eyes soften. "Why?"

"It's called a Blue Malaysian Coral snake. Highly venomous. There's no antidote." Will had looked the breed up after dinner last night. The pictures did not do the colors justice.

"It was pretty," Viara sighs and something in Will's chest unclenches. He musters a smile as he glances up, catching brown eyes briefly before focusing on the bridge of Viara's nose.

"Yeah, it was." Will pushes the laptop into his briefcase, places his lecture notes on top. He suddenly remembers he has not eaten breakfast and skipped lunch. "Do you like snakes, Viara?"

Viara shakes her head. "I am scared of them."

Will smiles wider. "Me too. Want to join me for a late lunch?"

Viara's smile is a small, hesitant thing. "I would love to."

Later, over a shared meal of terrible cafeteria burgers and even worse coffee, Will laughs at a story about a goat breaking into a high school yard to terrorize the students having gym outside and wonders if Hannibal would mind extending their lunch party to three. It is a passing thought Will pretends to forget.

He does not.


	4. Chapter 4

Hannibal enjoys life with a fullness very few can claim. He is content in his skin, feels no desire to be other than what he is. The darkness others fear Hannibal welcomes, befriends, hones and perfects until it is another blade at his hip and not one at his throat. His actions are not ruled by compulsion. They are conscious choices, made and executed with a clear goal in mind. For him, arranging a body in a bouquet of flowers is no different than obtaining a Rembrandt painting: it is a desire that is calculated, decided upon, and fulfilled if he is willing and able to bear its cost. Hannibal is rarely not.

Money goes far in allowing Hannibal to carve a space for himself in a world built for beings of a very different ilk. There are, however, riches gold cannot purchase - gems that must be dug out of the ground with one's bare hands, cut carefully to bring forward the full potential of their beauty.  Sometimes, Hannibal sees the glimmer of buried treasure in people: An intelligent remark in the midst of hollow socialite chatter, a talented brushstroke among shameless amateurs. Rarely does one person possess enough of it to inspire true interest on Hannibal's part. Bedelia and her diamond-edged mind had been the sole exception for a long time.

Surrounded by elegant reproductions of depth and beauty, Hannibal had almost let something truly precious slip through his fingers.

At first sight, Will Graham appears a doll of clay - dull and coarse and weak-jointed, given to crumble at the barest touch. His beauty had seemed painted on, shallow and impermanent. Hannibal had, strangely, still been intrigued. Still, he had thought himself content to savor the man for a while before breaking him to his satisfaction and creating something greater than Will Graham could ever hope to be from the earthly remnants of his body.

Then dear, good Will had shed his own skin and donned another in the midst of a blood-soaked crime scene, like an actor changing robes. Hannibal could not remember ever feeling more foolish.

The plaid, the stutter, the glasses, the nerves - _misdirection_. Unconscious, Hannibal decides during their very first therapy session, but still that. A mask worn to a carnival Will had never allowed himself to leave. Never thought he could. The man Will truly is remains hidden at all times, partially forgotten but never gone. Hannibal wants to tear at Will's skin until he finds him, wants to dig his fingers beneath the arch of Will's ribcage and touch a heart that might beat in tune with his own.

In the months since, Hannibal has come to label Will as an 'exception.' To what, he would be hard pressed to explain. 'Banality' comes the closest to capturing the warm, heavy feeling of contentment that wraps its fingers about Hannibal's neck and _squeezes_ when Will says something extraordinary in that offhand, self-depreciative way he says most things. Hannibal does not allow himself to consider 'loneliness' as an alternative. The word fits uncomfortably well, even without the fact that Will keeps bringing other people into Hannibal's life - worthy, interesting individuals of the kind Hannibal might have never discovered on his own. Worse, Will makes Hannibal want to _keep_ them, in the same manner Will keeps his strays. Fed and safe and happy.

Hannibal wonders if that insistent pull would be the very reason he slides a knife in Abigail Hobbs' throat. To prove that he can. To sever something that, if left to grow, will smother a part of him that he is not certain he can live without.

It would be easy enough to do. Hannibal thinks of it at times, considers possible outcomes the way he selects the dishes to be served on his table. Abigail trusts him even as she knows what he is - watches him with loyal, blind eyes meant for a beloved father. All Hannibal would have to do is open his arms. Abigail would come, heedless of the bare blade he holds in his hand.

Hannibal is starting to suspect that Viara Marinova will prove more difficult a quarry.

"What do you do outside of school, Viara?" Hannibal asks; another question in a series that had so far produced nothing but dull, vague answers.

Viara leans back in her chair, a motion meant to signify comfort. Her back never touches the leather. "I read. Go to the gym."

"That cannot be all."

Viara lifts her arms in a soft shrug. The jacket of her suit - black this time, the shirt beneath it a flesh pink interspersed with white stripes - bunches a bit before smoothing as she falls still. "I have a job. Library assistant at a local public branch, nothing exciting. There is not much time left for anything between that and homework."

Hannibal looks at her. She looks back, seemingly content to minimize her whole life down to two trivialities.

"You mentioned a scholarship during our last session," Hannibal says. Normally, he would not be as crass as to bring up a patient's financial situation during therapy. He finds himself tempted to disturb Viara's affected nonchalance. It is a rare, but startlingly familiar desire. Until today, Will Graham had been its sole source.

"That only covers tuition and the cost of my dorm room." Viara's face is perfectly calm, no trace of self-consciousness or embarrassment. "I work for the rest."

"There is no support from your family back home?" Hannibal asks, tone mild but eyes sharp. He catches Viara's flinch even though the woman makes a remarkable effort to hide it.

"I do not have any family left in Bulgaria. I believe I mentioned that already," Viara says and Hannibal bites on a pleased grin. Ah, there we are.

"You said you had no one you considered family. The sentiment must not necessarily go both ways."

Viara says nothing. Dark brown eyes study Hannibal for long seconds; they drag over the set of his lips, his eyebrows, dip to look into his eyes with remote intensity. When Viara finally speaks, her words hold the weight of a carefully-made decision.

"My father and mother never married," she begins. "My father - left. Quite the scandal, in a town as small as ours. In a country as small as mine. Most of my mother's relatives cut ties as soon as the pregnancy started to show. She raised me on her own. So no, no other support. There was not any to begin with." Her voice is even but thin. A scab. Hannibal smells the blood beneath it and digs deeper.

"Your mother's family wanted her to give you up."

Viara stares at nothing, gaze fixed over Hannibal's left shoulder. "She probably should have," she says.

Hannibal takes notes in his mind: Internalized neglect, possible self-confidence issues. Potential for developing depression. "I doubt an orphanage would have been a kinder place to grow up."

Viara is perfectly still. "No. A more permanent kind of giving up." Her face remains blank.

Hannibal adds _thoughts of suicide_ to his mental list. "Is that something you have wished for? Never being born?"

Viara blinks. She drags her gaze to Hannibal. "No. The sentiment is not mine." Her confusion is not affected, her expression hardened with a tint of affront; as if the answer should have been obvious. Hannibal puts a line through his last observation.

"It belonged to a relative, then?" Spoken in front of a young child, meant to inflict hurt. Hannibal is surprised at the severity of his own reaction. At that moment, he feels a strange and unwanted kinship with Will.

Viara smiles thinly. "Alcohol made my grandfather say things he would not while sober."

Repeated offenses, then. Hannibal's voice is a shade too even to be called calm.

"Did your mother leave you in his care often?"

"She had to work. Her parents were among the few willing to do something for us. Mother didn't like leaving me there. Eventually, she trusted me enough to leave me alone at home instead."

"How old were you when she started leaving you home?"

"Eight."

"That is still very young."

"I was very mature for my age." Viara's lips remain open, her eyes considering. Hannibal waits. His patience is rewarded when she adds, "I enjoyed the quiet. Being alone. I still do."

It is an opening, and willingly provided. "Do you prefer it to being with others?"

Viara glances at Hannibal. The moment her eyes catch on his Hannibal knows he has found something important, unearthed the seed of a secret after long minutes of digging through empty flower beds. The fact that Viara had pointed out the spot is of some interest.

"Yes," Viara says.

The admission is enough of a breakthrough for this session but, like with Will, something in Viara's manner makes Hannibal want to keep pushing. Possibly until something breaks.

Hannibal leans back in his chair and asks, "Why?" and waits for the evasive bow of Viara's eyes.

Viara smiles. It is an honest, open, completely unexpected response that has Hannibal's mind scrambling to refit its impressions of this young woman into something that suits the stretch of her lips.

"I like myself, Doctor Lecter. I enjoy my own company and when given the choice, I choose it over that of people who match me neither in intellect nor in interests."

Caught on the simple intensity of the words, Hannibal barely remembers where he had been going with his question. The follow up comes after a second of silence and rings false in comparison. "Friendship often requires compromise on the side of all parties involved. The benefits of positive social interaction are also not to be discarded."

Viara's smile is softer, but it remains; Hannibal is almost certain its meaning has shifted to mirth at his expense. "Even if potential friends knew what to ask for in terms of concessions, there is very little of myself I would willingly surrender."

"People are social animals." Viara's lips quirk up ever so slightly. "Do you not find yourself desiring companionship, Viara?"

"You are asking if I am lonely."

"Yes."

Viara considers the question. Her fingers drag invisible lines atop the arms of the chair. "I am not... entirely sure. I have never met anyone whose company I missed once it was gone." Viara stills almost as soon as the words leave her lips. Her head snaps up, eyes catching on Hannibal's with unprecedented intensity. "Don't."

"What are you warning me not to do?" Hannibal asks. He knows the answer very well. Déjà vu pricks at his mind, but he is too focused on Viara's taut face to explore it.

"Don't bring my mother into this. It's not the same," she says and for a second, Hannibal sees Will in her place - jaw squared, hands flat on a table bearing sharp knives as he begged Hannibal not Christen him a father.

Slowly, carefully, Hannibal inclines his head. "Very well," he says. Viara exhales in a shudder and looks away. Tension coils beneath her skin.

"I would like to address your socialization issue."

"I do not have a socialization issue."

Hannibal lets the exclamation hang between them. Viara flushes slightly, mouth pressing over yet more defensive words. Point made, Hannibal smoothly picks up the thread of their (largely one-sided) conversation.

"Am I wrong to assume that your job is not overly social?" Viara shakes her head. "Your extracurricular activities are similarly devoid of human interaction."

"I have a roommate," Viara protests.

"Whom you probably see for a couple of hours each night, if your schedules permit." Hannibal waits for another objection. It does not come. "Living in a foreign land is difficult, especially for lone immigrants. Dissociation is natural, as is isolation. As a student of Psychology, I trust you are well aware of the potential consequences."

Viara's fingers curve more sharply over the chair's armrests. "Psychopathy is not learned, Doctor Lecter."

"Psychopathic tendencies can however be encouraged through conscious actions and choices."

Viara looks up briefly from her dedicated study of the floor. An ironic smile twists her lips. "If they exist to begin with. I assure you, there are no dead animals buried in my grandparents' garden."

Hannibal smiles back, serene. "Not everyone starts with animals, Miss Marinova."

Viara's expression smoothes. "No," she says. "I guess not."

"I would like for you to make an effort to be more social. Start with something small - join a club, or perhaps a study group. I expect to hear about it next week."

Viara's face retains a rather belligerent tightness. She nods.

The rest of the session is spent on more trivial issues. Viara resumes answering Hannibal's questions with polite vagueness. She does not smile again. When the hour is up, they shake hands most civilly. For all of the insight Hannibal had gathered into Miss Marinova's past, he finds himself unable to consider the events of today's session progress as he closes the door in her wake.

What Hannibal does know is that Viara would check both of his hands and possibly his mouth for a weapon before accepting any gesture of good will.

 

* * *

 

Abigail is certain she has drank enough tea to drown in.

The teapot is dainty. White, with a curved crown and a thin sprout that curls far out of its body in a fragile arch. Abigail imagines twisting it off. She can almost feel the porcelain fracturing in her hand.

The tea in her cup is red. Rooibos, decaffeinated. Abigail tries not to look at it too much.

"How are you doing, Abby?"

Abigail blinks up. Doctor Bloom smiles encouragingly from across a table clothed in white. So much white, everywhere. If Abigail spills her tea, the stains would be terrible.

"I am fine," Abigail says. She does not like being called Abby. She doesn't tell Doctor Bloom that - or her roommate, the people looking after them in this pretty little prison. Abigail does not want them to think of her as 'difficult.' She is certain it is a single outburst from there to being fitted for a straitjacket.

Doctor Bloom frowns. Smart, kind woman. Abigail wants her gone.

"Will says he missed a meeting with you last week," Doctor Bloom says, voice casual.

Abigail's hands clench in her lap. "Yeah."

"How did that make you feel?"

"He couldn't help it," she says. "It is his job."

Doctor Bloom's expression is too soft. Abigail wonders how terrible she must look, to inspire such pity. She pulls on a smile. It doesn't seem to help.

"It is, yes. That does not mean you are not allowed to miss him, or to feel sad."

Sad. Abigail hadn't felt _sad_. She had felt angry - not with Will but with Hannibal Lecter. They do not let them watch the news in here, too traumatic, but Abigail had found a newspaper. She knows who had taken Will's time from her.

Doctor Lecter is being much too greedy.

"I wanted to see him. A lot." Doctor Bloom nods, so Abigail carries on in that vein. The older woman wants to see a victim in her, a desolate child. It is better than the expectations most people burden Abigail with. "I wish he is able to come by more often. Doctor Lecter, too." It's even true. Hannibal is not Abigail's father, for all the similarities between the two men. A traitorous part of Abigail's mind whispers that it likes Hannibal more.

"What do you do, when they visit?"

"Will takes me out, usually. Sometimes, we don't talk at all. We don't need to. I like that."

"And Doctor Lecter?" Doctor Bloom presses.

"We always talk."

"About what?"

 _Cannibalism_. Abigail smothers a smile. Her eyes flicker to Doctor Bloom's, catching their slight narrowing. Ah, professional jealousy. Abigail does not talk with Doctor Bloom. Their conversations are usually reduced to question-and-answer, just like this.

"My future. Will Graham." Largely the latter. Abigail wonders if Doctor Lecter realizes how obvious his obsession with Will Graham is. It is strangely endearing, but perhaps only because Abigail's own understanding of how people work is so broken.

"Are those subjects connected?"

Abigail shrugs. Doctor Lecter seems to think they are. Abigail hopes so, too, but is much too scared to bring it up with Will. She might like Hannibal better than her father, but Will is the father Abigail would have chosen to have, if God or whoever it is that pulls humanity along on a string had bothered to ask.

"Will they let me out soon?" Abigail asks. She asks every time, and every time Doctor Bloom looks away.

"Is there somewhere else you would prefer to be?"

 _Anywhere. The street, a gutter, Hannibal Lecter's table_. "Yes. Somewhere normal." Abigail remembers a river rushing against her, Will Graham at her side. Remembers thinking that he would catch her if she slipped, would not let go of her even if that meant the river takes him, too. "Wolf Trap," slips over her teeth.

Doctor Bloom lets out a startled breath.

Abigail bites her mouth shut and does not look at her.

"That's... don't you want to be with family?"

"Will could file for guardianship. No one would fight him for it." Abigail's extended family had rarely made appearance in her previous life. She has come to think they probably suspected something was not quite right with Garret Jacob Hobbs. Yet, they had left Abigail there - just as they had left her here.

Doctor Bloom studies her for a second longer. "I do not think that would be the best idea. Will Graham has a very demanding job."

Abigail wonders if Doctor Lecter makes Will feel like he is damaged. She doesn't think so. Doctor Bloom would. Abigail suddenly hopes that Will never has to call Miss Bloom "doctor."

"Yeah," she says out loud.

Their hour is over soon after that. Doctor Bloom talks about Abigail potentially attending school in the fall and other such nonsense. Abigail nods her along and does not mention that Doctor Lecter has already made plans for a private tutor. She will tell Will, though. Will likes it when Doctor Lecter takes care of Abigail, and Abigail likes to make Will happy.

They say their goodbyes. Doctor Bloom leaves. Abigail is escorted to a large sitting room for what she privately terms "playtime" with the other patients. A girl is screaming in a corner when Abigail walks in, hands over her ears. Two women in white uniforms kneel by her, talking in soothing voices.

Abigail wonders what her nightmares are whispering.

 

* * *

 

"I think something's wrong with Abigail."

Hannibal pauses on a down stroke along rough, pebbled paper. "What has led you to that conclusion?" Hannibal lets the greeting off, too, mirroring Will. He had found that it is always best to take Will's lead when talking about Abigail Hobbs.

"Alana is being evasive about their last session." Will pauses, voice cutting off in a sigh that rumbles over the line. "Sorry. That was a bit out of the blue. Hi."

"Hello, Will," Hannibal infuses enough warmth into his voice to know Will will be blushing, safely invisible in his own home. "What seems to be the matter with Abigail?"

Will stalls for a moment. Perhaps it is the fact that Hannibal did not refer to Abigail as "Miss Hobbs." It is the first time Hannibal has done so.

It is also the first time the two have spoken about Abigail following that eventful Tuesday afternoon in Will's classroom. Hannibal thinks it an auspicious time to cast a more intimate light on the relationship between them three.

"Alana wouldn't say. Patient confidentiality and all that," Will sounds upset. Hannibal smiles; good. "I think it would be good if we-" Will falls silent.

"Yes?" Hannibal encourages. He can almost hear the brush of Will's tongue over his lips. Hannibal mirrors the action.

"If we visited her. Together." Will sighs. "Today. I know it's a bit short notice, and I can only do it during our time," Hannibal smiles wider at that; Will is referring to the therapy session as _theirs_. "But I think she'll like it. She likes you a lot."

"Not as much as she likes you." Will stammers around an embarrassed denial. "I will be happy to accompany you, Will. I find myself concerned about Abigail as well."

"It's okay to miss therapy?" Will sounds relieved.

"It is your time. What we do during is entirely up to you." Hannibal tries not to put too much significance on certain words in that sentence. He is confident Will would find - and likely disregard - the correct meaning nonetheless.

"I - yeah," Will stammers. "I'm at the lab. Meet you there in half an hour?"

"Of course, Will."

"Thank you."

"Always, Will."

Hannibal lets the dial tone echo in his ear for a moment before lowering the phone back in its cradle. Rue des Barres is a skeleton of graphite lines. Hannibal decides he likes it that way. He leaves the drawing where it is and goes to collect his coat. If he departs now, there will be enough time to stop by a certain bakery that makes exquisite Far Breton.

Will is already there when Hannibal pulls into the institution's spacious parking lot. Hannibal is pleased the man had waited for him. Perhaps he had tarried a bit with his self-appointed errand on purpose.

Will pushes away from where he had been leaning against the hood of his car. He moves to Hannibal's side, an almost unconscious action. Hannibal lets his mouth split into a pleased smile.

"Hi," Will ducks his head. His blush is still faintly visible. He nods at the paper box Hannibal holds in his hands. "What's that?"

"Far Breton," Hannibal says.

"Sounds French."

"It is," Hannibal agrees. "Shall we?" He wants to offer Will his arm. Will looks up at him like he is waiting for Hannibal to do just that.

"Yes. Let's go."

They cross over the perfectly manicured lawn in companionable silence. A woman meets them at the door. Will prickles in her company, likely in response of her overbearing niceness. Hannibal finds her prattling highly off-putting.

"And here she is, the dear, right through here," the woman - her name tag reads, _Agnes_ \- hurries them through a glass door into a small, scantily furnished room. Abigail smiles at them hesitantly across a white table. Two more chairs have been set around it. "Call for me when you are done," Agnes instructs around another too-wide smile.

Will ignores her, already pulling out one of the chairs.

"We will," Hannibal says. The woman leaves. Hannibal, possessing a perfect peripheral vision, sees her smile slip into a disgusted frown the second she believes herself out of sight.

"Hello, Abigail," Hannibal greets.

"Hi," Abigail smiles up at Hannibal, briefly taking her eyes off Will. "Um. There's tea, if you want it." She gestures at a tea set that tries terribly hard to imitate a more expensive kind.

Hannibal sits beside Will. He places the box in the scant space left between his elbow and the table's edge.

"You're probably sick of tea," Will says and Abigail chokes on a laugh, eyes bright.

"Yeah, I am," she agrees. Will smiles at her.

Hannibal's mind buzzes with _potential_.

"How are you finding your living arrangements, Abigail?"

Abigail starts. "Did Doctor Bloom say something?"

"What could she have said?"

Abigail swallows. She looks from Hannibal to Will's expectant face. The sudden tightening of her jaw speaks to her having reached a decision.

"That I want to come live with you."

Will's eyes widen beneath a fringe of messy curls. Hannibal tries very hard to keep most of his satisfaction hidden away.

"With me?" Will stutters, then clears his throat. "Or Doctor Lecter?"

Abigail glances at Hannibal. She had meant Will, of course, but Will does not know that.

"With the both of you," Abigail says and Hannibal smiles.

Such a perfect, obedient daughter.

Will seems to be at a complete loss of words. His eyes dart between Abigail and Hannibal and back again.

He does not, however, say no.

"That is certainly something to keep in mind as the date of your release draws nearer," Hannibal says, voice smooth.

Abigail looks up from where she had been examining the table. "You know when they will let me go?"

"Of course." Hannibal affects surprise. "Naturally, the moment a suitable guardian requests it."

Will's breath stutters in his chest. He brings his attention to the tea cup placed some inches away from the hand he has rested on the table. Will is not a suitable guardian, and he knows it.

Hannibal, however, is perceived as such. Will knows that, too.

"Do you think anyone would do that?" Abigail asks, voice a perfect mix of honest bewilderment and hope.

"I am sure someone will," Hannibal says. Will's hands clench. "Now, would you care for dessert?"

"Please," Abigail smiles.

Will very, very cautiously looks up.

Hannibal pretends he does not feel Will's eyes on him as he carves a soft cake in perfect triangles.


	5. Chapter 5

They are waiting on him.

Fifteen people, aside the core team of Crawford, Price, Katz, and Zeller. Fifteen trained, supposedly brilliant people and they are all staring at Will like he's the Messiah.

"I have nothing new," Will tells them all and closes his eyes to the resulting disappointment.

"Nothing?" Crawford moves forward with so much force Will takes an instinctual step back and bumps into the bed bearing Mary Cadwell's corpse."You always have _something_. Try harder."

"I am trying," Will snaps at the innocent floor. His glasses have slid partly down his nose. He does not fix them. "It's not happening. Nothing's coming."

"You got something at the scene!" Jack explodes and Will really, really wishes their audience was smaller.

"That should have been enough!"

"Well, it isn't! It never fucking - get out, all of you!" People in dark blue uniforms start to clear out hastily under Jack's fierce glare, their footsteps heartbeats on the linoleum floor. "Not you three. And especially not _you_ , Graham!"

Will does not stop in his determined trek toward the double doors. "I have class in an hour."

"Will-"

"I have _class_ in an hour, Jack, and I haven't eaten, or slept much for that matter, and this is all I have for you so I am _leaving_." This is the line. Jack can demand so much of Will, so very much, but he cannot have his class. Not his actual work, the one Will has _chosen_ to do.

Jack seems to know it, too. He backs down - physically stops from where he had been chasing Will across the morgue. "Is this about that damn snake?" he asks.

Will stops with a hand on the door. "What? No."

"It was highly venomous, and you live with six dogs."

"Seven," Will corrects, then sort of wishes he had not. A peek at Jack from beneath the too-long fringe of his hair reveals the man looking slightly pained.

"Seven dogs. Jesus. Well, think about it, do seven dogs and a snake in the middle of nowhere mix well? Where would you have even kept it!"

"I could've bought a proper cage, and I don't know why we are having this conversation at all, except yes I wanted it and no, you should not have killed it," and Will is babbling, he knows, but a night of nightmares and a day of poor coffee has melted his filter and he is still so goddamn _angry_ over the fate of his gift. Raw with it. Even if not Will, couldn't someone have taken the creature in? Beverly, or Price, or-

_I am sure someone will_. Far Breton explodes on Will's tongue, sweet and rich.

Will squeezes his eyes shut, pinches the bridge of his nose where the glasses had dug in. "I am going," he tells the room.

Crawford exhales harshly. "Fine. But if the Ripper kills again-"

"-when," Will corrects, quiet. Beverly is the only one close enough to hear him. She shoots him a look he has come to read as concern. Will waves her off.

"-and we could've caught him with _this_ , it's on your consciousness!"

"It always is."

Will leaves, not at all interested to hear whatever guilt-edged words Crawford has prepared for him next.

His car is cold. Will does not bother to turn on the heat, simply focuses on driving out of the building at the highest safe speed. He fucking hates Thursdays. Work and class and no Hannibal.

Will merges lanes and pretends he does not suddenly feel warmer.

The last meeting between Will and Hannibal had been a tad...not awkward, never that, but filled with silent conversation. They had been talking about something entirely mundane over pineapple-glazed ham and golden potatoes and a salad arranged like flowering bushes - Will's class, his dogs. Hannibal's obsessive love of classical everything. Yet every time their eyes caught, every breath of silence, a very different discussion tried to bud through Will's mouth. It didn't help that Hannibal had brought another decadent French dessert. A Tarte Tatin, this time.

Abigail had really liked the Far Breton.

Will almost misses his turn. There. That's what Will had tried so hard not to consider, what had kept him staring at the back of his eyelids instead of sleeping: Abigail's pale, tired face. Hannibal's quiet support. Will's own desperate, yawning _want_ to have these two people in his life even though Will very well knew he did not deserve either of them.

Hannibal had - he had offered. To take Abigail in. To take her away from the institution and closer to Will. Hadn't he?

This had been the silent monster in the room with them on Tuesday. This conversation and its implications. Hannibal had not touched it, likely not wanting to rush Will and his delicate, cracked psyche. Will had been too afraid of his own jagged edges to even consider saying something. Imposing.

Will is certain that Hannibal would have taken the snake, had Will asked him. The knowledge burns like the best whiskey.

Will walks into the Academy half an hour early. He had planned to swing by the cafeteria and get something on the go. Thinking of Hannibal and the food they had shared on Tuesday has Will going directly for his classroom. The freezer at Wolf Trap is stocked with bass and walleye; no reason to buy processed crap.

The classroom is not dark. Will steps in cautiously, still on edge from his visit to the morgue to feel safe even in a building filled with law enforcement. His eyes cover rows of empty tables, catching on a bowed head.

Will walks in fully. "Viara?"

Viara blinks up at him. "Oh. Hello, Professor Graham. Sorry, I'm a bit early."

"That's fine." Will sets his things on his desk. Then he surprises himself by asking a question best labeled as small-talk. "How is your week going?"

"It's," pause, "fine."

Will looks up from his computer.

"Nothing's wrong," Viara hurries to explain. "Just-" she seems to chew on her words for a bit before finally sighing, "Doctor Lecter's making me be social."

Will lets out a snort of laughter. Viara pursues her lips in a slight pout. "Sorry," Will clears his throat, aware his words still rumble with mirth. "What does that entail?"

"He said anything. As long as it has people in it." Viara pulls a face. Will empathizes deeply.

"Have you found something?"

Viara hesitates. "Don't laugh," she warns. Will raises a hand in solemn promise. "I work at a library, and they hold book club meetings once a week on Wednesdays."

_Exciting_ , Will thinks. Then again, he would not be caught alive in anything that has "club" in the title. Will hopes Hannibal does not take it into his head to make Will more sociable, too.

"Do you like it?"

Viara shrugs. "It is mostly housewives and a few high school students doing volunteer hours."

Will cocks his head. "That doesn't really answer the question."

The slightly pained expression returns to Viara's face. "It really, really does."

Will chuckles. "What are you reading?"

Viara looks hunted. " _Twilight_. You can laugh now, it's fine."

Will does. Harder than he had in god knows how long. There is just something terribly, morbidly hilarious about Viara discussing a tween escapist novel featuring sparkly vampires with - "Oh," Will chokes on a snort, "Oh, please, tell Hannibal - Doctor Lecter - tell him about it on Friday."

Viara's eyes gain a slightly vengeful shine. "Trust me, I plan to. I bought him a copy, too."

Will laughs anew, eyes wet with mirthful tears. His stomach feels like it's cramping.

Wait. Gurgling. His stomach is gurgling, loud enough to be clearly heard.

Will flushes. "Skipped lunch," he mutters and turns back to his desk.

Footsteps; hesitant at first, then gaining momentum. "I - have food. If you want."

Will's eyes flicker to Viara. She is holding a blue tupperware container in both hands. "No, that's - no. Thank you. Please, keep it."

Viara places the container on his desk. "I am not going to eat it. I packed dinner just in case I had to go in to work last minute, but they never called. So - please. It will go to waste."

Will very much doubts that. Something in Viara's manner - her expectant face, hovering poise - makes him feel especially ungrateful and rude even considering refusal, however. In the end, he nods.

"Thank you. You don't have to."

"It's really fine. I made it, so don't expect too much, but it's edible." Viara smiles. "I haven't died from food poisoning yet, at least." Will finds himself smiling back.

Viara goes back to her seat and purposefully picks up her book, set on pretending she is not there. Two hands hold a red apple on the cover; Will smothers a grin. He looks down at the container. His stomach rumbles and Will opens it with a sigh. A glance at Viara reveals her frowning at the pages before her. Will sits behind his desk, locates a plastic fork left over from some fast food place or another, and thinks that it is good to be surrounded by people considerate of his tendencies and desires. He appreciates being left to eat in peace.

Turns out, Will appreciates the food even more.

Chicken and roasted potatoes, speckled with a green herb that smells and tastes like the wild. Will feels bad wolfing it down, but he has only about ten minutes before people really start coming in. The container is well-sized; he manages to finish everything inside.

"Thank you," Will says. "That was really, really good."

Viara takes the empty Tupperware container when Will comes by her desk to hand it over. She wraps it in a plastic bag before stuffing it inside her backpack. "It's a simple enough recipe," she begins, hesitant.  "My mother made it much better." She shrugs. " _I_ could probably make it much better. I just don't care enough to try."

Will thinks he hears someone else's words in Viara's voice."True skill requires a lot of heart," he agrees.

"And heartache." Viara murmurs.

Cold water rushes over Will and he gasps for air that is not to be had. The feeling is gone within a blink. Viara, still busy rearranging the contents of her bag, has not noticed anything at all. Will looks at her bowed head and wonders what kind of nightmares Doctor Lecter is fighting on her behalf. Whether Abigail would like her.

Will shakes his head and steps back and back again, until he is at his desk. Students filter in one by one. Will manages to be passably normal - well, what passes as normal for him - even as a quiet panic begins to simmer at the back of his mind. He is overreaching. He is starting to want things he has never thought he should be allowed to have, strange and different and freakish as he has always been.

Yet, his eyes keep straying to Viara between slides. She looks back at him, focused on his lips and the words they form with an intensity Will had found only in one other person. Whereas Hannibal is quiet power and poise however, Viara is a dichotomy of a confident mind in an unconfident body. Quick to think herself right but careful with her eyes, her laughter, her words. A strange, maddening puzzle.

Will's own fractured mind jumps giddily at the prospect of fitting Viara Marinova together.

"Any questions?" Will remembers to ask. Nobody as much as twitches; most people are avoiding looking directly at Will, too. Will frowns slightly. He really hopes his outburst of last week does not continue to be an issue. Addressing it in any way is among the last things he wants - or has the time, really - to do.

Will mutters absent goodbyes to the people that pass by his desk. Viara waves at him as she leaves. He waves back.

He is almost packed when his phone rings. Will fumbles with it, trying to balance both the phone and his laptop. A glimpse at the caller ID has him setting the computer down hastily.

"Is there something wrong?"

"Good afternoon, Will." Hannibal's voice wafts over the line, warm with amusement. "Does something have to be wrong for me to call you?"

Will chuckles. "No. Of course. Sorry - usually when people call me, someone is dead and possibly missing a few organs."

"I must confess, I do have a task in mind with this call. There are no organs involved, I promise."

Will grins. "Shoot, then."

"It is about Miss Marinova's paperwork. The school staff seems to be having difficulty locating her records. I believe I may have made a mistake while filing. Could I check what I have against your roster?"

"Sure. Just a minute." Will opens his laptop. He has to click through several folders until he finds the correct class list. His files are a mess. "Alright, go ahead."

"Viara Marinova, age 21, gender-"

"Wait! I think I found the problem." Will highlights a row of text. "Yeah. Sorry, that one was my fault. 'Marinova' is her middle name. She must have put it down as the name she wants to go by, but it is not her legal surname."

"Hence the bureaucratic confusion."

"Exactly." Will squints at the screen. "She is officially 'Viara Marinova Lazarova.' Do you need me to spell that?"

Hannibal does not say anything for several long moments. Enough for Will to utter a soft, "Hannibal?" down the line, wondering if the man had not heard.

"Will, are you certain?"

Will swallows. Hannibal's voice is about two octaves lower than it had been. Ten shades darker. "Yes. I am sure. Why? What - is something wrong?"

"I believe," Hannibal lets out a rattle of a sigh. He pauses, clears his throat. "I believe I knew her mother."

Will blinks. He has heard the words, but understanding seems to drag its feet in their wake.

When it finally arrives, however, it is complete and irrevocable.

"That - actually explains a lot," Will finds himself saying.

Hannibal lets out a soft grunt that manages to convey a startling lot. The man has walked the most grotesque of crime scenes at Will's side, sprouting eloquent nonsense. Yet here he is, reduced to noncommittal sounds.

Then again, it is not every day a man learns he has a daughter.

"This does not have to change anything," Will reminds. "She is a legal adult."

"Yes."

"You should call her." Will says next. "Arrange a meeting. Not in your office."

"Yes."

"Do you," Will pauses, a sudden need to comfort warring with his usual issues of confidence. Worry over Hannibal wins out. "Do you want me to come, as well?"

"That would be...most kind, Will."

"Alright." Will exhales. "Okay. Call her, and then - call me with the details."

Hannibal mutters something affirmative, then the dial tone is beeping in Will's ear. It is the rudest Hannibal has ever been.

Will smiles with a touch of schadenfreude. Whoever said life is stranger than myth had it quite right, it seems.  

He gathers his things, turns off the lights, and leaves the classroom.

The thought that an orphaned venomous snake would have been a much easier issue to deal with floats through Will's head.

 

* * *

 

Hannibal stares at his phone. His hand is still upon it - has been ever since he hung up with Will. Which, according to the pale-faced watch ticking on his desk, had been over ten minutes ago.

_Lazarova_.

_Marina_.

Hannibal closes his eyes. A woman rises from the dark waters of his imagination, slim-bodied and tall. Expressive face. Gentle eyes. Mind sharp enough to cleave a man in half.

They had met by accident. Hannibal had hopped off a train bound to Austria two countries early on a whim, caught by the beauty of the Old Mountain curving around a city wreathed in roses. Marina had just been returning from abroad herself, a student of the kind that does not exist anymore: Self-dependent, half-starved, willing to sacrifice time and money and comfort to learn the secrets of men long dead. They had met at a small cafe a bit off the station, and then proceeded to seek out each other's presence for three months straight.

Their romance had lasted a single summer. Half-forgotten now, but more precious than gold at a time Hannibal had felt more animal than a man. Hannibal had left Bulgaria with unprecedented reluctance.

 As it appears, he had never quite left Marina at all.

_Marinova_. Even that should have been telling, had Hannibal thought to be suspicious. Cultural tradition dictates that a Bulgarian child will receive its father's name as its second given name, adjusted to the babe's own gender. It is a process of legitimization, of laying claim on one's heirs and announcing it to the world.

When the father is absent, the mother's name is used. A shameful prospect that brands a child unwanted for its entire life.

Hannibal's fingers clench over the phone, indecisive.

The very fact sets him into motion. He has remained in the dark long enough.

Viara picks up at the second ring. "Good evening, Doctor Lecter." She sound confused, a bit concerned even.

Hannibal is beyond trusting the face she shows to the world.

"Miss Lazarova."

Viara inhales sharply. Her exhale is slower; her words, when they come, are curiously and familiarly even. "I see. I suppose you would like to meet?"

"Very much so. Would you be available for dinner tomorrow night?"

"That depends," Viara drawls. "Who is on the menu?"

Hannibal's hand tightens around the phone. As he had thought. "You do not know them. Will Graham will also be in attendance. You can rest assured of your safety." _For now_ ; a sentiment Viara likely hears loud and clear.

"I have seen the way you look at Professor Graham, Doctor Lecter. Of the two of us, I think dear Will has a greater chance of ending up on your table." Viara's affection of Hannibal's own manner of talking is nearly perfect, accent aside. Hannibal finds himself intrigued quite against his will.

"I must remind you that you are still a student and not a degreed psychologist. Shall we say, 7?"

"I do, however, have access to a brain very similar to the one under discussion. The time works well. Should I bring something?"

"Just yourself. And Miss Lazarova, I do still expect to see you in my office tomorrow morning."

"That is fine. I have a present to deliver anyway."

Hannibal pretends he is not frowning in stumped displeasure. "Good night," he offers finally, voice pleasant enough.

"Good night, Doctor Lecter."

The line clicks hollow.

Hannibal Lecter sits in his chair behind a desk carved of wood and shadows. He does not move again until his next patient knocks impatiently on his office door, having waited for the doctor to come out and greet them in vain.


	6. Chapter 6

The door to the office is open.

Caught in the doorway between the waiting room and the street beyond Doctor Lecter's practice, Viara considers this phenomenon. The outside world spills around her body and into the waiting room, disturbing its somber comfort with a disharmonious symphony of life. The din of traffic, people talking, the soft caw of a raven all seem out of place - as if unreal, a dream from which Viara would wake simply by walking through the door.

There is an old story about a girl who found her way to the tree of dreams. Viara has forgotten most of it, but thoughts of sleep never fail to bring that tree to mind: a grand, old oak bent with the weight of people's hopes and fears. The fruit that hung the lowest was rotten, Viara remembers. The most beautiful of illusions rested in the tree's crown.

Viara can just make out the edge of Doctor Lecter's desk from where she stands. A piece of a dream, hers for the taking.

A car screeches angrily a block away.

Viara walks inside and gently pulls the front door shut behind her. Her steps echo lightly against the wooden floor, small bursts of sound almost immediately smothered by silence.

Doctor Lecter sits at his desk. His head is bent over what appears to be a blank sheet of paper, arms at rest on either side. A pencil lies on his left, a naked scalpel on his right. The man's face is hidden behind a thin veil of shadows.

Viara raps gently against the door frame. "Doctor Lecter?"

Hannibal Lecter lifts his head. Not the Doctor, not Professor Graham's friend, but a man who wields destruction as an honorable blade. A Reaper who serves no god but the one within him, whose mercy is but a quicker death. _Terror_ , Viara thinks as she finally lets herself look into Death's eyes, _is the only possible, natural reaction_.

She seeks fear in herself, and finds only peace.

Hannibal Lecter stands. "Come in," he says, voice devoid of the congenial warmth the Doctor offers his patients.

Viara strides forward. She bypasses the chairs arranged for therapy, not stopping until she stands at the other side of the desk. "A present, as promised," she says and offers a rectangular package across wood and paper and steel.

Hannibal Lecter lifts his right hand. It hovers over the desk - the scalpel - for a blink of an eye. Viara had not missed the momentary hesitation. She does not falter.

"Thank you." The present is accepted, then laid carefully down. A large hand rests atop it for a moment; the dark paper Viara had used to wrap the gift now calls to mind the leather binding of a Bible.

Viara smiles. "Do not thank me yet. You have not seen what is inside."

Hannibal Lecter studies her, face still. Viara has seen its kind often and is not disturbed.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" she says, words products of disjointed thoughts. She does not regret them, delights in the quirk of confusion that tightens Hannibal Lecter's brows. "Putting it on every day. The mask. It pulls the worst right here," she touches the corners of her own lips, "and feels wrong hours after it's gone."

The surprise melts away.

"Please," Hannibal Lecter says, "take a seat."

Viara walks back to the chair. The office's door is still open. Her eyes lift to it just before she sits down. "Should I close the door?" she asks.

Hannibal Lecter looks at her for a long moment. "It is best if it remains open," he says at last.

Viara nods and sits down. Hannibal Lecter mirrors her, his own seat halfway across the room. The chairs had been closer last time.

"Why are you here, Miss Lazarova?" the man asks. Viara does not correct him with  her first name. She suspects he is growing rather tired of having his assumptions questioned. As all men, he abhors the idea of succumbing to someone else's play - of tangling in a web he had not spun himself.

Viara has no need for lies. The truth is a weapon enough, in the right hands.

"I wanted to know you," she tells him.

There is no outward response, no shift in the man's expression. "To what end?"

Viara keeps her eyes on his. "So I can know myself." Hannibal Lecter says nothing, an obvious manipulation to have her continue. She allows it. "So I can understand why I am different."

"Every person believes they are different, singular, extraordinary." _Believes_. Not _is_. An important distinction that many would miss, carried along by the man's mild tone. "A natural drive toward self-preservation in a world that would readily discard a single soul."

"Yes," Viara agrees. "Yet there are those who rise above the mass, those who are pushed outside it."

Eyes like jagged glass bore into her. "Are you the King or the pariah?" Hannibal Lecter asks.

Viara thinks over her words, lets them come slow and steady like the throb of a heart.

"I have been both, Doctor Lecter. I could be anything in between."

Slowly, softly, Hannibal Lecter exhales. Something cold seems to slip out of the room with his sigh, a monster with metal teeth and red eyes.

"The world is malleable, and so are we," the Doctor says and Viara nods, grateful and trying hard not to show it. To be understood so quickly is remarkable. A singular experience in a life staring at blank walls that pass for human faces.

"I constructed most of who I am," Viara says and feels bare, feels scared for the first time since she had walked through Hannibal Lecter's door and seen a nightmare waiting for her inside. "Gestures, values, morals, beliefs. Every piece carefully chosen and arranged to mimic what I have seen in others and found lacking in myself, with no internal understanding of the reason for its presence."

"Extreme self-awareness, to the point of the awareness itself becoming the self," Doctor Lecter says and Viara had been wrong, for this is the man's true mercy: honesty, the gift of his sharp mind dissecting those of others put before it for perusal. She nods and wishes he would continue, would tell her of his own patchwork of a persona.

"What profit did you see in seeking me out?" Doctor Lecter asks.

"Is it not obvious?"

"Humor me."

"An exchange of information and experience," Viara says. "The ability to observe a mind that works in similar ways, analyze its workings objectively."

"You assume there is something I can learn from you," Doctor Lecter gives her a thin smile, one that belongs to the man himself and not his proper human suit, "Or otherwise you mistake me for someone charitable with their time."

"Why do you kill, Doctor Lecter?" Viara asks, voice soft enough for the two of them and no one else.

The smile disappears. Doctor Lecter is quiet.

"I have never killed anyone. You spoke of psychopathic tendencies during our last session. I do not have them. I do not desire to kill or see others in pain - but I do not care if I do, either. I know the nature of the meal you plan to serve tonight. It does not bother or please me in the slightest.

This is what I am trying to understand, Doctor Lecter," Viara leans forward in her chair; across the room, Hannibal Lecter mimics her. "What am I, if all that I have constructed in terms of personality and self is stripped away? If all that has happened to me had never been? I think it is something you would like to know, as well."

"What do you propose?"

Viara exhales, filled with rare giddiness. "Honesty. Unfiltered exchange of feelings and thoughts when requested."

"Data."

"Precisely. I would like to see your life, in whatever aspect you allow me. You are welcome to mine."

"And after?" Doctor Lecter asks, tone carefully neutral.

Viara remembers the glint of the scalpel on the man's desk. "We go our separate ways, armored with an understanding of our world no textbook or teacher can give us."

Doctor Lecter considers the words, eyes intent. Viara is not certain what he seeks to see in her, what clues a body can give to sway a man one way or another. She is certain her own is incapable of persuasion. A clumsy sack of meat and bone, no more than a transport for a mind that feels forever trapped.

Doctor Lecter bows his head in a brief nod. "Very well." Viara smiles and unclenches her fingers from where they had tangled with each other in her lap.

"Now," the Doctor resumes, tone lighter. "I believe you are here for a reason, Viara."

Viara shakes her head. "None other than to meet you. I do not need therapy. I am sorry for making Professor Graham worry." Pretending dysfunction had appeared the surest way to get close to a man whose entire life was built upon unstable ground. From there, Doctor Lecter's company was nearly certain. Viara wonders if the Doctor knows how closely he hovers around his chosen prey. Most of the class is certain they are involved, the rest believing the Doctor to be in pursuit of their strange professor.

They are not wrong.

"Are you, truly?" Doctor Lecter asks.

Viara does not take the question as a slight."Not at first. I knew he was working on profiling the Chesapeake Ripper. I accepted a position at the Academy so I could meet him, learn about you through him. I never expected to see you." Viara hesitates; honesty, she reminds herself. "I have come to like Professor Graham. I expected that even less."

"You knew who I was even then." Viara nods. Doctor Lecter leans back in his chair, seemingly untroubled by the revelation. "How?"

"My mother told me."

Ah, there it is - a glimmer of surprise. Viara is pleased to see a crack in the man's control, however miniscule.

"When?" Doctor Lecter asks after a brief pause.

"A little after my fourteenth birthday."

"Why then? Why not earlier, or not at all?" the man presses and oh, he is good. His interest is palpable, an almost hunger that has his attention focused entirely on Viara and their conversation. These are not the questions he wants to ask, for they do not concern him directly, but he plays his role of Doctor with commendable dedication.

Viara decides to indulge him and share what he truly wishes to know nonetheless.

"One of my classmates jumped from a bridge and drowned himself. Or so the police said. It was obvious he had been murdered."

Doctor Lecter's brows raise. "Obvious in what way?"

"There were bruises around his wrists - rope burns. His nose was broken and one of his eyes had distended. His clothing was torn, pants ripped and knees bloody. The wounds showed clearly even with the water bloating the corpse."

"A robbery gone wrong?"

Viara shakes her head. "Bullying."

"Ah. A police officer's son was involved."

"The chief's," Viara agrees.

"Who found the body?"

"We did. Mother and I. We were planning to go fishing that morning. We cut through under the bridge instead of over it. The body was half-submerged in silt, close enough to the shore that we could have stepped on his back thinking it land." Viara presses her lips together. "Mother screamed, when she saw him. She couldn't stop shaking."

"And you?"

Viara shakes her head. "Nothing. I didn't feel...anything. I was fine.

"Later - after the police had come and we were freed to go, mother told me that I looked like you. That she had seen you in my expression, the way I stood -" Viara chuckles, the laugh mirthless, "It was the first time she mentioned you. Until that point, I may have well sprung out of an apple fully grown."

"Maiden unborn," Doctor Lecter says and Viara nods. An old Bulgarian folktale, one of hundreds she had lost herself in as a child. Something in her is glad that he knows of it. "She told you about me."

Viara nods. "Everything. More than you knew she could, certainly. She kept newspaper clippings of the murders you committed in our country in a box beneath her bed, together with the letters you wrote her, drawings you had given her as gifts." Viara sees the box in her mind's eye, a painted wooden treasure crafted by hand in an old tradition nearly lost today. She remembers the feeling its contents had inspired in her - thin paper and ink-stained pictures, beauty and blood and kind words. They fit so neatly together, Viara had not even thought to wonder why her mother would keep them in the same place. It seemed only appropriate that beauty and ruin would share a coffin.

"You wanted to be seen. You still do. Perhaps you have become a bit more selective with your audience, spoiled by Will Graham's attention. But the fact remains. Mother suspected for a long time. She followed you one night, saw you burn clothes soaked in red. From there on, it was but a matter of looking for patterns. She was good at that." Marina Lazarova had studied to be a lawyer. Her mind had been uniquely suited to the examination of evidence, capable of sifting through mountains of hay to find the single pointed needle within.

"Yet she did not alert the authorities."

Viara smirks. "She did not want you near. A Bulgarian prison would not have kept you long. She thought it safer to let you leave on your own."

"Safer for her," Docor Lecter notes around a sharp smile.

"For her, and for the child she knew she carried."

The smile falters.

"Did your mother suspect you of murder, Miss Lazarova?" Doctor Lecter recovers quickly. His offense is milder than Viara would have expected, given that she had just told him a woman he had long forgotten had held his freedom in a box beneath her bed for over twenty years.

"No. She suspected me capable of it, and she was right. That was her taking measures." Viara smiles. "It is always better to know what you are up against."

"Is your own mind an opponent?"

"Only if it is unknown to me."

Doctor Lecter is quiet for a moment. There is something pensive in his expression, attention turned ever so slightly inward.

"You mentioned your surprise upon finding a connection with Will Graham." Viara nods. "Have you never felt kinship for another person?"

"I have chosen not to."

"You have kept yourself apart from others consciously."

"Yes."

"Can you tell me why?"

Viara's mind projects immediate refusal. Ever-analytical, Viara recognizes the intensity of the reaction as betraying the existence of an actual issue. Perhaps even one that stems from her own self, not of the bits and pieces of others she had collected over the years. "It is too...strong. The feeling of attachment."

"Your emotional reactions are usually mild."

"Usually."

"And when they are not?"

Viara takes a slow breath. "When they are not, other people are scared and I am disappointed. It is not worth the trouble."

Doctor Lecter studies her. "Have you joined an activity?"

Viara blinks at the apparent non sequitur. "Yes. A book club."

"How are you finding it?"

"Dull."

"Is that all?"

Viara shrugs. Doctor Lecter assumes a put upon expression.

"This exercise is meant to hone your social skills. If you are not socializing, it becomes a futile endeavor and a waste of time."

"I am content as I am."

"An outcast?" Doctor Lecter asks mildly. Viara stiffens. "Would you really choose the pariah's rags over the King's throne?"

"I could be anything in between," Viara reminds - tells herself and Doctor Lecter alike.

Across the room, thin lips pull into a smile.

"We shall see."

 

* * *

 

Will parks his car at the end of the driveway leading up to Hannibal's stately home. He turns off the ignition, glances at the bottle of wine in the passenger seat, and presses his forehead against the steering wheel.

Will kind of regrets offering his company tonight. A lot.

It is going to be an awkward dinner. There is no way around that, just as there is no way to avoid any possible complications. Viara will be his student for several more months. Hannibal will continue to be his...therapist. Friend. Whatever. And Will - Will is really, really not good with emotions and their consequences.

Will sighs and thunks his head against the wheel. Then he grabs the bottle of wine and leaves the car, feeling as if he is racing against his own mind. Or rather, the temptation to turn the car around and get the hell out of dodge. He drags his feet the entire way to Hannibal's front door, then proceeds to morosely stare at the doorbell.

Will sighs and lifts his hand.

The door opens almost immediately. Will blinks up at Hannibal, surprise quickly melting into embarrassment at the man's knowing smile.

"Will. Thank you coming." Hannibal opens the door wider and makes a gallant gesture with his left hand, beckoning Will inside. He is wearing an apron over an ensemble of a waistcoat and suit pants in velvet greens and grays. The pattern rather looks like scales.

Will shakes his head and thrusts the wine forward, almost pushing it in Hannibal's hands. "The guy at the store said it goes well with lamb," he mutters and wishes he could act like a normal, self-possessed human being. Just the once, for variety's sake.

Hannibal examines the label. "He was correct. Thank you, Will, it will make a lovely addition to the table."

Will shrugs, eyes dancing along the floor, the crisp edge of Hannibal's pants, the man's large hands curved over the bottle. He clears his throat. "Do you need help with anything?" Will had come fifteen minutes early on purpose. He had suspected Hannibal would need someone to practice being a host with, before Viara came along and the main event, as it were, begun.

"The lamb legs are almost done. Everything else is ready. Perhaps you would like to help me set the table?"

Will glances up. "I'm not much good at decorating."

 "Simplicity holds its own beauty." Hannibal's smile is positively sunny. Will feels his cheeks heat. "If you would follow me to the kitchen. I need to check on the lamb."

The kitchen is a controlled mess of pans and dishes and salad bowls. Will hides a smile by pretending to examine a plate bearing a miniature pyramid of stuffed grape leaves that is still too large for only three people. He should not be finding Hannibal's culinary panic amusing. Or adorable.

"All looks well." Hannibal closes the oven, having studied its contents quite intensely for far longer than probably necessary.

"Smells amazing," Will comments. Hannibal offers a small smile and three cloth napkins folded over silverware. "I can take some of the plates, too," Will protests. Hannibal pointedly picks up a small stack of dishes and walks away. Will follows, grumbling good naturedly.

They talk while setting the table. The topics are light without being shallow, lending the dining room an aura of quiet contentment. It makes Will realize how much of their previous talks had been dedicated to death or his own fractured psyche. Why Hannibal had decided to befriend a man who sucked the joy out of a room with his mere presence is a mystery to Will.

The doorbell rings five minutes to seven. Hannibal leaves the centerpiece in peace and sets for the front door. He has discarded the apron at some point; his suit jacket, Will notes, is slung over the back of one of the dining room chairs. Hannibal pauses beside it. After a moment's hesitation, he passes the chair and the jacket by. Will nods to himself in approval, then promptly panics about where he should stand when Viara comes in.

A quiet conversation occurs in the foyer. Viara walks into the dining room a few minutes later. She is wearing a high-necked dress of dark green, accented with a golden necklace bearing a smiling sun. It billows slightly as it passes her hips, ending just below the swell of her knees. Feminine yet young, consciously innocent. Will's mind spins with implications and Will tries very, very hard not to start profiling his friend's daughter.

"Good evening, Professor Graham," Viara offers. Her voice is soft, slightly hesitant - contains just enough abashed embarrassment to pull Will's focus back where it belongs.

"Good evening. And please, Will is fine." Will winces and backtracks. "Well, outside of class."

Viara nods, not seeming to take offense or notice Will's awkwardness at all. Or think his words awkward in the first place. "Thank you. This looks amazing. Very," Viara stares at the three course meal set along a table of gleaming wood, expression a mixture of awe and disbelief. "Fancy," she settles on in the end, then promptly blushes at the inelegant wording.

Will grins. "Yeah, that's what I thought the first time around. Wait until you taste the food, though. Goes a long way to make up for the intimidating table settings."

"Do you have a problem with my table settings, Will?" Hannibal asks from terribly close by and Will jumps with a stifled curse.

"Jesus - Hannibal, I almost fell on the table!"

"I would not mind having you on my table, Will," Hannibal says, perfectly straight-faced.

Will sputters. Viara lets out a soft sound that sounds suspiciously like stifled laughter.

Hannibal sets three dishes of steaming lamb leg garnished with greens and thick, red sauce in their rightful places among the plates already present. He pulls out Viara's chair for her, then goes around the table and does the same for Will. They make a joke out of it. Will's heart still beats too fast as he picks up his fork and knife.

The stuffed grape leaves go well as appetizers, tasting fresh and zesty when topped with a squeeze of lemon. The lamb is, of course, beyond delicious. The meat falls apart with the barest of encouragement, melting on the tongue and leaving only the taste of flesh and spices behind. Will is so lost in the experience of it that he almost misses Viara taking her first bite. It is not something Will had been avidly watching for, but the importance of Viara eating at Hannibal's table - eating food Hannibal had prepared - is not lost to him.

Perhaps it is not lost to Viara, either, because she seems to hesitate before lifting the fork to her lips. Only for a moment, a brief stagger of motion, but Will had caught it. Blue eyes flicker to Hannibal. The man's expression is mild enough. Perhaps he had not noticed.

A moment later, Viara lets out an appreciative moan and digs in with gusto. Hannibal smiles. Will forgets his worry and refocuses on his own plate.

A conversation forms between bites and the clink of china. Hannibal inquires after Viara's studies, prompting Viara to launch into a short explanation of her proposed Master's thesis. She means to analyze the social aspect of criminal insanity, comparing across societies for patterns of behavior in people deemed criminally insane under their home nations' courts of law. Will, not being her academic adviser and thus hereto ignorant of Viara's chosen topic, listens with as much interest as Hannibal.

"The data is based upon past case studies. There is not a lot of original research, I am afraid," Viara says at the end, shrugging a bit as if in apology.

"It is an interesting subject, and one worthy of study," Hannibal comments. Will nods in agreement. Hell, he'd love to see the results himself.

"Data analysis is hard work," Will adds. "The final report will be original enough, trust me."

Viara's lips bunch into a frown. "I am not so certain. My adviser keeps urging me to change my topic."

"What? That's not - who's your adviser?" Will demands.

Viara blinks at him, caught by his sudden vehemence. "Tom Rombard."

Will groans. "Figures." To Hannibal, he says, "I told you he's incompetent."

 "So it appears," Hannibal agrees. Viara says nothing, but seems less like she is waiting for criticism from either or the both of them.

"What do you do in your free time?" Will asks, deciding to make an attempt at leading the conversation. Hannibal bears the burden of that task too often in his company.

Viara shrugs. "Nothing too exciting. I read. Go to the gym. Cook, when I have the time."

Hannibal's eyes light with interest and Will smiles, pleased that his gamble at conversational planning had worked. "You are a great cook, and - oh my God, I fed you burgers." Will turns to Hannibal in bemused panic. "I fed _your_ _daughter_ mystery-meat cafeteria burgers."

A startled chuckle leaves Viara's lips. Hannibal's expression speaks of concealed mirth. "You are forgiven, Will. Please, breathe."

The dinner ends on a good note, with more laughter and gentle teasing. Viara politely declines an offer to stay for coffee - "I'll be up all night, and I have work tomorrow," - and shakes her head quite firmly at Will's insistence he drive her back to the dorms.

"Please, stay. Enjoy your evening," she tells him.

Will blushes slightly without knowing why. Trying very hard not to know why.

Will helps Hannibal clean the table. He collects the dirty glasses while Hannibal piles dishes together, mind drifting in the warm lassitude following a good meal in even better company.

Hannibal's voice startles him slightly, despite its low octave.

"You paused there before."

Will blinks, trying to reorient himself with the room. He is standing next to the chair that had stood on Viara's left. It had been empty, no plate before it.

"When we were setting the table. You paused there, and you kept looking over as we ate." Hannibal has left the plates where they are, is moving closer with each word.

Will stares at the empty chair and thinks absolutely nothing.

"You wish she were here as well, do you not?" Hannibal whispers, voice a soft rasp in his ear. "Abigail."

Will does not know what to say. Rather, he knows exactly what he wants to say but is afraid to hear the words out loud.

So he turns his head and kisses Hannibal instead.

Hannibal does not startle, despite the fact that he could not have possibly been expecting such a reaction. Will cringes and draws back, clumsy and apologetic and half-drunk from the brief taste of Hannibal on his lips.

Hannibal presses his hands to Will's hips and pulls him back in.

Their second kiss is soft. A drag of lips, first closed then parting against each other, sharing breath and warmth. Will sucks Hannibal's bottom lip between his, rolls it gently in the grasp of his teeth. Hannibal's hands clench against him. His mouth parts wider, pulling at his trapped lip. When Hannibal's tongue slides over their connected flesh, Will opens his mouth wide to receive it.

They pull apart reluctantly. Will is more than willing to lean in again, to share another kiss - to tug Hannibal upstairs and let the man do as he wishes with him, for as long as he wants him. But Hannibal's grip is unyielding, encourages Will to press against his side and rest. Will does. He sighs in contentment. Hannibal Lecter's shoulder makes a great pillow; who knew?

"Are you alright, Will?"

Will licks his lips. They feel swollen. The whole of him does, heart and tongue and brain. "Yeah. Great. Better than I have been in a long time."

Hannibal's smile is beautiful. Will focuses on it, and not on the dark shape grinning behind the man's right shoulder.

He is alright. He has to be.

And if his arms tighten around Hannibal with more than just passion, no one but the monster has to know.


	7. Chapter 7

The ceiling is crying.

Abigail blinks. The thin cracks in the white paint stop bleeding sluggish tears. Blue eyes slide lazily to a plastic cup at her bedside. They must have changed the dosage. This always happens when they do.

The sun shines outside. Its light is empty of warmth, but appreciated nonetheless after a long week of dreary weather. Abigail's room faces the back courtyard. Some of the girls are trying to enjoy the early afternoon there. Most are hiding inside, like Abigail. The sun matters little to them when their minds are so very dark.

A knock at the door pulls Abigail from her empty study of the window. She blinks heavily. The knock repeats twice over before she is able to will herself up from her chair. The sour-faced woman on the other side hardly warrants the effort.

"Hello, Agnes."

"You have a visitor," Agnes says in the stead of a greeting. The woman wears her disgust for her job openly. Abigail appreciates her honesty; most of the staff hides behind smiles so fake they grind on the nerves. 

Abigail tries to remember what day it is. Monday. Will does not visit on Mondays. Not alone, at least, and Agnes had said _a_ visitor. "Doctor Bloom?"

Agnes pursues her lips. Her foot taps against the floor with irritated impatience. "No. A friend of yours, from back home. She is waiting downstairs."

Abigail sees Marissa Schurr's body hung like a pig on a hook at the butcher's. She smiles. "That's nice."

Agnes' expression pinches. "Are you ready to go?"

Abigail nods. Agnes hesitates only briefly before setting down the hallway. Abigail follows the older woman, amused by the half-glances Agnes throws over her shoulder.

The visiting room is its usual blank white. There is tea on the table, fresh flowers in a vase by the open window. Purple anemone. Abigail barely notices their lush blooms. Her gaze catches on dark, expectant eyes and she stops, stock still, and stares.

The woman is wearing a plain blue blouse over dark jeans. No make-up, no jewelry, hair up in a tight pony-tail. Abigail takes in the sharp cheekbones framing features full to excess and presses her lips closed over a giggle. Even barren of adornments, the woman is too distinctive to be dismissed.

The woman's expression does not shift outwardly. Something in her eyes changes as she stands to intercept Abigail, however. A fire lighting upon a sea. She opens her arms. "Abigail."

Abigail's breath catches. The woman is a stranger, of this Abigail is certain.

Agnes shifts to Abigail's left. The polite smile she pulls on for visitors is dimming at the edges. "Abby, if you'd rather-"

Abigail steps into the stranger's arms and awkwardly wraps her own around the woman's middle. "I'm so happy you came."

The woman rests her hands over Abigail's shoulder blades. "Of course." Abigail feels the barest of pressure against her skin. Hardly a proper embrace, but theatrical enough to fool a bystander.

The woman pulls away. She smiles at Abigail, cheeks dimpling charmingly. "Let's sit outside." Her eyes seek something in Abigail's, intense and restless.

Abigail swallows.  "Yes."

Agnes makes a noise of dissatisfaction. The stranger lifts her eyes from Abigail to look at the older woman over Abigail's shoulder. Agnes falls silent.

The air is crisp but still. Abigail inhales the sharpness in her own body. She is suddenly glad to be out of her room, even if in dubious company. The stranger walks at her side, back straight. Abigail pulls her own shoulders back, suddenly conscious of their inward curve. She keeps her voice low on account of Agnes shuffling some steps behind.

"What is your name?"

"Viara."

Abigail repeats the strange syllables. The stranger - Viara - throws her an amused glance. "What does it mean?"

"Must it mean something?"

"Most names do."

"What does Abigail mean, then?"

Abigail's nails bite through the skin of her palms. Wet slicks her fingertips. "Father's joy."

Viara's eyes are on her, almost a physical touch. Abigail keeps her own on the cold ground. She is suddenly certain Viara knows who Abigail is. Abigail wants neither the woman's pity nor her disgust.

"Faith," Viara says. Abigail lets out a questioning hum, the thread of the conversation having unraveled in her mind. "My name means 'faith.' It is rarely given to a lone child. Most often, it comes in a series of three."

"Love and Hope are missing," Abigail murmurs.

"Just so."

Abigail looks up briefly. Her eyes catch on the edge of Viara's smile. She does not look back down.

Viara leads them to a gazebo at the heart of a frozen garden. Agnes excuses herself to a bench some distance away. She is meant to keep an eye on them; Abigail knows the woman will soon be too immersed in her phone to bother.

"Over here, please."

Abigail sits as directed, with her back to Agnes. Viara takes a seat across from her. Abigail worries at her bottom lip, scratches her red-crusted nails over the wooden bench, scuffs the toes of her shiny shoes against the gazebo's cement floor, until she can simply not distract herself anymore.

"What do you want from me?"

"Do people usually want something when they talk with you?"

Abigail's nails bite into the bench until they bend beneath the force. "I already have a therapist, thanks."

Viara's lips curl slightly. "Not Hannibal Lecter, I hope."

"No." Ire melts beneath anxious confusion. "You - you know Dr. Lecter?"

Viara's smile widens. Something in her expression has Abigail's mind prickling - the press of her lips, the slant of her eyes. Abigail grasps at a half-formed thought, incredulous. "I do. Tell me, Abigail. How well do _you_ know Hannibal Lecter?"

Abigail swallows. She opens her mouth, but no words will come out.

"Have you eaten at his table?" Viara presses.

There is no mistaking what she means. "What do you want?" Abigail rasps.

Viara nods, as if she had received an answer.

"I have a reason to believe that Will Graham is in danger." Abigail's heart lurches. "Not immediate, perhaps not inevitable. Certainly planned."

"By..."

"Yes." Viara leans back, face pleasantly blank. Her long legs cross before her. Abigail sees someone else in her place, memory overlapping with reality. "With your help."

Abigail rears back. "I wouldn't-"

"You would. You won't know you are doing it, but you will. Why else would he keep you around?" Abigail shakes her head; the truth of it brings tears to her eyes. She fights hard to keep them from spilling. "He enjoys the play of it, the theater, but only because he believes the script to have been penned by his own hand. Do not doubt that he has an ending for you in mind."

Abigail clasps her hands together for something to hold on to. Her cheeks are wet. "What do you mean to do? I won't- I can't-" Abigail shakes her head and takes several deep, staggered breaths. The thought of losing either Will or Dr. Lecter is terrifying. Abigail has so little left. It would hurt less to die.

Viara leans closer. She places a careful hand over the tense knot of Abigail's fingers, gently urging them apart. Bits of blood speckle Abigail's skin where her nails had dug in.

"I am not asking for anything of the kind."

Abigail looks at her. The quiet confidence in Viara's expression pulls at something in her, something small and scared and long neglected. "Then what? How do we change the ending?"

Viara smiles, slow and sharp.

"We make it worth his while to write a new one."

Steps beat off the hard ground, closer and closer. Viara dabs at Abigail's face with the sleeve of her coat. Her expression turns intensely focused, as if drying Abigail's tears is a task worthy of her entire attention.

"What do you want from me?" Abigail asks quietly.

Viara lets her hands drop. She remains close, leans closer still. Abigail's world narrows to the soft darkness of her eyes.

"I need you to choose me over him."

Agnes clears her throat, body balanced at the mouth of the gazebo. "Time's up, ladies." Abigail stiffens.

"Will is my teacher," Viara says. Abigail turns her attention back to her. The line of tension weighing her brows relaxes as she watches Viara shift away lazily, not at all concerned with Agnes' looming presence. "He is a good man." When Viara pushes to her feet, Abigail does the same.

They file out of the gazebo. Agnes leads the way back to the institution, Viara and Abigail some steps behind.

"Yes," Abigail says, just before they enter the building.

Viara's eyes glint over a pleased smile.

 

* * *

 

Will has seen too many dead girls.

This is not the only thought going through Will Graham's head as he considers the limp body sprawled on a white bed, but it is the one he chooses to focus on. The rest - the thin voices that murmur about soft skin and pretty lips - belong to men Will would choke with his own hands and for his own pleasure.

"Well?" Crawford demands, suddenly close. Will automatically shifts away.

"It's not the Ripper."

Crawford lets out a gust of air. Will cannot tell if it is born of relief or disappointment. "Alright. What can you tell us about her killer?"

"Inexperienced," Will says. He walks around the bed, taking in the manner in which the corpse has been displayed. "Young. Trying so very hard. Trying to - to impress someone."

"More love letters?" Crawford grunts in disgust. Will shakes his head.

"This - this is not the killer's design. There is no vision behind it. It's robotic. Look, the way the wrists are cut-" Will hovers his gloved palm over the deep gashes scissoring the corpse's arms in sloppy Xs, "Unsteady, repeated several times to get to the bone."

"So?" The impatience in that one word has Will grinding his teeth.

"So, the killer was enacting someone else's vision."

"A puppet." Crawford studies the girl's body. Will wants to draw the blanket over her. He clenches his hands until the terrible ache passes. "You've got anything else?"

Will shakes his head.

"Alright. You're free to go. Katz, I need you!"

Beverly pats Will's arm as they pass each other. Will does a moderate job of hiding his flinch. He walks as fast as he can, tearing the rubber gloves off his hands so savagely he catches some of his own skin with his nails. Will hardly feels the sting.

The cold air outside helps a bit. Will spends some time crouched behind his car with his head between his knees. The drive back to Wolf Trap is spent blinking through waves of star-dusted black. Will pulls over once to dry-swallow an aspirin, but does not allow himself more than a few minutes of rest. He is tired enough to fall asleep. Out of his mind enough to sleep walk himself into getting hit by a car.

The drive takes Will twice as long as it should. The body had been discovered in a boarded up house down in Richmond. That's not where the girl had been killed. Will pushes his glasses up and presses the heel of his hand against his right eye, hard. He slams the car door closed, not bothering to lock it.

The dogs whine at him, cold noses pushing against Will's hands and the back of his knees. Will pats a few furry heads with shaking hands before he collapses on the couch. Zoe scrambles up beside him and lies with her muzzle pressed against Will's thigh. Will rests his hand over her soft stomach. The feel of her chest expanding and deflating is calming. A sign of life in a tall pile of corpses rotting at the bottom of Will's eyes.

Will pats at his clothes until he finds his mobile. He dials without looking, mumbles his name to the detachedly polite voice that picks up. "I would like to speak with Abigail Hobbs, please."

"Just a moment, Mr. Graham."

Will waits a moment, ten more. Abigail's soft, "Will?" has him exhaling heavily.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, everything is fine."

"That's good. That's-" Will presses his lips shut before more nonsense spills through. He clears his throat. "How was your day."

"It was...nice. Different."

"How so?"

"I think I made a friend."

Will smiles. "That's great, Abigail. One of the other girls?" He does not want to press, would not usually, but the case has him shaky and suspicious. The girl with her throat cut out and her wrists sawed to the bone had been betrayed by a friend.

The rush of realization has Will gripping the phone. "Abigail, I am sorry. I have to go. I have to call - someone at work."

"That's alright. It's almost curfew anyway."

"Sorry," Will repeats. The word tastes bitter. Curfew. Fuck, do they have 'lights out,' too?

"Please, don't. It's fine." Abigail does sound fine. Will breathes a bit easier. "Goodnight, Will. Come visit when you can. Doctor Lecter, too."

A ghost of a smile touches Will's lips. "We will. Goodnight, Abigail."

Crawford answers with a sharp, "What've you got?" Will tells him. The urgency fades with each word. Crawford's sullen silence has bitterness take its place. "I want you present when we interview the family," is all the man offers in reply. Will acquiesces because he knows there is nothing else he will be allowed to do. A persistent itching starts at the back of his skull.

He had traded his time with Abigail for this.

Crawford hangs up. Will spends a few delirious moments trying to recall Viara's number before he remembers he does not know it to begin with. He squints at the phone. 10:01 pm. Will bites at his lip as he scrolls through his few contacts. He pauses with Hannibal's name highlighted. He should not. It is too late. They had not talked since Saturday morning, which Will is doing his best to strike from memory. Waking up in Hannibal's guest room with the sheets plastered to his naked skin had been mortifying enough as it happened. Will does not wish to relive the flushed-hot feeling of embarrassment and excitement and bone-deep fear every time he thinks of Hannibal. Especially not when he cannot convince himself he hates it.

In the end, Will compromises with a text message. He tells himself he is not waiting for reply, then almost drops the phone in his hurry to swipe at the screen when the thing buzzes a minute later.

[I am glad to hear you made it home safely. Have you eaten?]

Will's stomach gurgles helpfully. [Not yet.]

[I am certain you have had a long day, but please eat before you retire, Will.]

Will clutches the phone. Warmth blooms in his chest, sudden and dizzying. [I will. Thank you.] He hesitates, then adds, [For everything.]

The reply comes slower than the rest, as if Hannibal had taken his time wording it. Will flushes as he reads it.

[This is the least of what I would do for you, Will.]

There is nothing Will can say to this. Nothing he is willing to say, at least now. Thankfully, Hannibal proves capable of reading Will's mind even when it is half a state away because the phone buzzes once again. [Good night, Will. Sleep well.]

[Goodnight, Hannibal.]

Will stares at the screen until it dies to black. He closes his eyes and presses his hand over his mouth, tracing the smile there with trembling fingers.

The fire in his mind burns, bright like molten gold.

 

* * *

 

Abigail lies on her bed. It is well past midnight. Her roommate snores softly some feet away, deep under the spell of handy blue pills. Abigail's share is dissolving somewhere in the canal.

There is a weight over Abigail's stomach. Abigail presses her hand over the plastic lump. Throwing one last look at Danny's sleeping body, she ducks her head beneath the covers and thumbs the phone on. Viara had pressed it into her pocket during their exaggerated goodbye. It is a simple model; small screen, keyboard, an appended charger. Abigail no longer remembers what her old cell used to look like. After a moment's hesitation, she selects the single number listed under the 'Contacts' folder and sets her fingers to the lit-up keys.

[hi.]

The reply comes immediately. [You should be sleeping.]

[I can't fall asleep. What are you doing?]

[Reading. Research for my thesis. Trying not to strangle my roommate with her headphones.]

Abigail smothers a giggle in her hand. [she's singing?]

[Wailing. To the Titanic soundtrack.]

Abigail's cheeks hurt. She realizes it is from smiling, the ache that of muscles long disused. [what's your research about?]

[Do you really want to know? It'll probably bore you. It's mostly statistics at the moment.]

[it's ok]

Abigail does not know when she falls asleep. In the morning, she finds over fifty messages stacked atop each other. The last had been sent at 4:02 am. It reads, [Sleep well.]

Abigail reads them all before deleting the thread. She will have to find a place to hide the phone. She will have to lie, both to Dr. Lecter and to Will. She will have to choose.

Abigail inhales deeply. Exhales.

Faith.

She could use some of that.


End file.
